


At Swim, Two Boys

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, M/M, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:25:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the novel by Jamie O'Neill. Historical (early twentieth century) AU. As the conflict between the authorities and magic users threatens to escalate into civil war, two boys are drawn to each other, and find an unexpected ally in the form of a disgraced aristocrat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forty Foot

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur and Merlin are seventeen at the beginning of the story, and Gwaine is a few years older. The fictional country in the story is not meant to be Ireland. Merlin does refer to Irish as the language of his mother’s people, but the language is not named and no offence is meant.
> 
> Thanks to B for the cheerleading and beta'ing, and to everyone who read this as a WIP and left such encouraging feedback.

‘You missed a spot,’ Arthur says, grinning in the late afternoon sun.

Startled, Gwen drops her broom and bends to retrieve it. ‘Curse you, Arthur Pendragon. If it weren’t your birthday, I’d be chasing you down the street with this aimed at your backside.’ Brandishing the broomstick, she waves it in his face before rising on her toes and kissing his cheek. ‘There you go, for birthday-luck.’

‘Thanks, Gwen,’ Arthur says, drawing her into a warm hug. ‘Any word?’ he asks quietly as they separate.

She nods, eyes shining, and draws out a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her work trousers. 

Arthur squints at the single line scrawled on the paper. ‘All love does ever rightly show humanity our tenderness,’ he reads. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘Thought you were going to be a college boy and all. Some scholar you’d make.’ Gwen punches his arm lightly, and then touches the first letter of each word with a fingertip. It’s code. See?’

‘A – L – He’s in some place called Aldershot?’

‘I’m sure of it. I looked it up in a map in Lady Morgana’s library.’

‘Well, if anyone knows Lance’s mind, it’s you.’ 

‘Don’t tell your father about the letter, okay?’

‘Why not? You know he loves Lance like a son.’

‘Yes, but he thinks I’m beneath his precious godson’s love, doesn’t he?’

Arthur sighs. ‘I won’t say a word.’

Gwen presses a paper-wrapped loaf of warm bread into his hands as her bids her goodbye. ‘I didn’t get you a real present, but it’s freshly-baked.’ 

 

\--

 

His father looks up from his thick, yellowed accounts register as Arthur enters and stows his book-bag away in the little cupboard under the counter.

‘There’s your lunch on the table,’ his father says by way of greeting, nodding toward the scrubbed wooden table in the back. ‘Hurry, now. There’s work to be done.’

Arthur nods quickly, going into the little room at the back and pulling out the single chair at the tiny table. He uncovers his cold food—boiled cabbage and a couple of strips of salted meat; times are hard—and wolfs it down. Gwen’s bread is crusty and delicious, making up for the meagreness of his meal. He leaves half of it for his father, knowing he would not have eaten yet.

‘Slowly, or you’ll make yourself choke.’ His father sets a bottle of water next to his plate. He’s holding a stack of leaflets. ‘Soon’s you’re done, I want you to take the bicycle and deliver these.’

Arthur glances at the top leaflet. Anti-magic propaganda, like all the posters stuck on the walls around town. ‘I didn’t know we were doing propaganda now,’ he says, keeping his voice quiet to minimise the level of audacity in the words.

‘I won’t be hearing you defy me, Arthur.’ His father’s tone is sharp, but he runs a weary hand over his face. ‘The mayor’s office is paying newsagents to deliver these.’ The bread catches his eye. ‘Where’s this from, then?’

‘Gwen baked it for me. For my birthday,’ Arthur says quickly.

His father’s hand squeezes his shoulder quickly. ‘It’s good friends one has, Arthur, who’ll part with food in times such as these.’ He smiles. ‘I’ve a cake for you, too. But after you do your chores. And don’t go loitering off on the bicycle, you hear me?’

Arthur grins. ‘Yes, father. Where is it you want me to deliver these?’

‘All down the street behind your school.’

‘Father, I... is there nowhere else I can distribute them? It’s just... so many of my classmates live there.’

‘What of it?’ His father claps a hand on his shoulder as he rises from the table. ‘There’s no shame in good, honest work, son. Go on, off with you.’

\--

Arthur knocks on his third door, heart sinking as one of his classmates opens the door.

‘What do you want?’ the boy asks shortly, looking deliberately at Arthur’s clean but worn trousers.

‘Just to deliver this.’ Arthur shoves one of the leaflets at the boy, and turns to leave.

‘Who is it at the door?’ a woman’s voice calls out from inside the house.

‘Just a paper-boy,’ the boy yells back, and shuts the door.

After that, Arthur can’t bring himself to knock on any more doors, despite his father’s instructions. He leaves the pamphlets in the letter-boxes on the gates instead.

He takes the long route back, the one that leads over the road beside the cliff. His father often says that you carry your weather with you, but it truly is a gorgeous day, with fluffy clouds lining the blue sky, as though nothing could go wrong with the world on a day like this. As though Lance weren’t away training to be a soldier, as though civil war was not almost upon the country. 

_All love does ever rightly show humanity our tenderness._ Code or not, Arthur thinks as he pedals his bicycle slowly up the inclined road, there’s something true about Lance’s words. Not that he’s ever experienced love, directly, but the words ring true, like the sound of the waves breaking against the cliffs.

He’d sooner not think of how he’d found out about Gwen and Lance. Even the memory of it brings a faint blush to his cheeks. 

‘Will you keep an eye on Gwen for me? While I’m gone?’ Lance had asked. Arthur was perched on the edge of the writing-desk in the bedroom they’d both shared since they were boys, when Lance had arrived, orphaned, on their doorstep.

‘How do you mean?’ Arthur asked, stuffing an extra pair of woollen stockings into Lance’s knapsack. 

‘You know. Don’t let any of the chaps bother her. And don’t think of her when you get yourself off,’ Lance said, entirely seriously. Arthur hadn’t been able to look Gwen in the eye for days after Lance had left.

Getting off the cycle, he rests it against the low stone wall overlooking the promenade below and sits on the wall to catch his breath. Below him, swimmers are laughing and talking and strolling along Forty Foot cliff. The gentlemen’s bathing house—where some men scandalously bathe in the nude—is right below him. 

He sees two men emerge from within, one almost fully dressed and the other with a short, threadbare towel around his waist. The first man leans in to say something to the other, lips almost touching his ear.

Arthur pushes away from the wall and retrieves his cycle, deciding to wheel it down the sharp decline of the road. The path curves around until it joins the road beside the promenade, and as he nears the bathing house, he sees the two men still standing there. The shorter of the two is facing Arthur, buttoning up his expensive-looking white silk shirt carelessly with one hand as he runs the other through his thick, wavy hair, shaking the seawater from it. 

‘Sure you won’t change your mind, then?’ he’s asking, still leaning toward his companion in that familiar way.

The other man—Arthur can see his profile now, and he’s barely a boy, only around Arthur’s age—shakes his head. He’s tall and slender, with a head of dark hair and long, lithe limbs. A lean, sun-browned thigh is visible between the folds of his short towel. ‘I’m already late for work, Gwaine,’ Arthur hears him say. His voice is soft but a little hoarse, his accent rich and full.

‘A pity,’ the man called Gwaine says, reaching behind his friend’s ear and producing a shiny silver coin with a flourish, which makes the boy laugh.

‘For your trouble,’ Gwaine says with a wink.

Still laughing, the boy grabs the coin from mid-air as Gwaine flicks it toward him. ‘Later, Gwaine.’

He turns around just as Arthur is passing directly by them, the smile still on his face. It doesn’t go away as he glances at Arthur, meeting his eyes.

‘ _Dia duit_ ,’ he says lightly, his voice full of impossibly good cheer, and waves at Arthur. His smile widens rather than fades, the sharp angles of his face softening as though he were laughing in sheer delight at the loveliness of the sky, the waves, as though the beauty of the entire world belonged to him, as though it were his to share.

Arthur waves back, slowing down a little as something about the smile stirs his memory. Before he can put his finger on what seems so familiar about the other boy, he has already disappeared into the bathing house, his hand already beginning to tug at the towel around his waist.

The smile remains in Arthur’s head all the way back home. How easy it had been, how welcoming, even to a stranger. A name spills from his memory: _Merlin_.

\--

‘Be careful, there. The bucket’s almost full,’ the owner of the general store says from his doorway, and Merlin looks up from the garbage midden he’s been emptying. His bucket is not yet full, but he empties it into his cart anyway.

‘You’re Hunith’s boy, aren’t you?’ the man continues.

‘Yes, sir.’ Merlin pushes his shovel into the bin again, gathering more rotten vegetable peels and discarded scraps of paper and dropping them into his bucket.

‘Didn’t you go to school with my son?’

Merlin looks up. The man is tall and silver-haired, with a strong jaw and piercing eyes. ‘Arthur,’ he says, remembering: the name, the shiny golden hair. Eyes blue as the summer sky. The boy from the promenade that afternoon. ‘You’re Arthur’s dad.’

‘You won a scholarship at the same time he did. When you were both ten. What happened to you?’

Merlin shrugs, goes back to his work. ‘Had to quit school. Needed to get a job.’

‘I see,’ Mr Pendragon says. There’ll be pity in his eyes if Merlin looks at him, so he doesn’t. ‘And your father? Is he still unwell?’

‘Stepfather,’ Merlin says shortly. ‘Yeah, his lungs are bad.’

There’s silence for a bit. Then Mr Pendragon says, ‘You could get a job if you asked at the church, you know.’

‘I have a job, sir.’ Merlin gestures to his cart. ‘’Sides, I did speak to the curate and all. He says I can join the band.’

‘Did he? I thought the band was only for students. My son’s in it.’

‘It’s what I was told, sir. If I may, could I trouble you for a drink of water?’

‘Of course.’ 

Merlin watches as Pendragon goes into his store and picks up a cup from a small table at the back. Filling it with water, he brings it out and hands it to Merlin, along with a rather large plastic packet. ‘I can’t sell these broken biscuits,’ he says, a little awkwardly. ‘I thought you might like them.’

Despite himself, Merlin is oddly touched. He stows the biscuits away in his satchel, and nods his thanks. ‘Thank you for the kindness, sir.’ 

‘Think nothing of it, my boy. Your father and I were in the army together, back in the old days. One can’t say what breaks a man.’

 _Not my father. And the bastard would sell my mother for a lick of alcohol, if he could._ ‘It’s the army that’s forcing men away from their jobs,’ Merlin says. ‘It’s why I do this job, at half the price that it’s worth. To fill the church’s coffer, when there’s people who could do with food and homes.’

‘Now, now, that’s no way to talk about a position of such honour. Why, my own godson is training to be a soldier, and so will my son when he’s of age.’

Merlin thinks back to a time when he was four feet tall and sitting behind Arthur in a classroom. Quiet, intelligent Arthur, almost always reading, even though he could be a dragon on the playing field. And that one time, he’d beaten up a kid twice his size who’d taunted him about being poor because he was on a scholarship. None of the bullies had dared to pick on him again, poor or not. The memory almost brings a smile to his face. _Your son may surprise you yet, Mr Pendragon._

\--

Merlin awakes with a start as the book he’s been reading slips out of his hand and falls to the ground. He picks it up quickly.

‘What’s that you’re reading?’ the physician asks, stepping out of his tiny shop and into the street where Merlin has been sitting on a rickety old stool.

The false cover of an old textbook that Merlin has used to conceal the book’s title has slipped off. He slides the fake dust jacket back on to the book and thrusts the volume under his coat.

‘Here’s your mother’s tonic,’ the physician says, pushing the small glass bottle gently into Merlin’s hand as he gets to his feet.

Merlin rummages in his pocket for money, but the physician waves a hand. ‘No charge this time, Merlin. And do be careful about what you’re seen reading, will you?’

‘You’re a good man, Gaius.’ Merlin gives his old friend what he hopes is a bright smile.

The day has been very, very long, and he is exhausted as he makes his way home through the darkened streets. It has begun to rain, and he pulls his collar up as he walks, trying to keep the cold, wet drops from sliding down his neck.

He can’t resist stopping in front of the pawn-broker’s shop. His flute is displayed in the window, for sale now because the time for it to be reclaimed has lapsed.

‘That’s a fine-looking instrument,’ a voice, vaguely familiar, says at his shoulder.

Merlin glances around. The young man from the bath house, Gwaine. They'd swum together a bit, after which he’d offered to teach Merlin how to dive, and Merlin had declined. He’s wearing a soft dark coat over his silk shirt now, smelling of cigarettes and some heady, expensive cologne.

Gwaine puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. ‘Walk with me?’

Merlin shrugs, ensuring that the movement dislodges Gwaine’s hand. ‘If you like.’

‘I do. Like, that is.’ Gwaine grins his charming grin.

\--

‘You at the back, the new boy,’ Brother Aredian says as the band winds up for the day. ‘Where did you learn to play?’

Arthur knows the question is directed at Merlin. He’d quietly taken his place when practice had started in the chapel that afternoon, appearing from nowhere and going to the back as though he wanted to blend into the wall there. Arthur had tried to catch his eye to say hello, but there hadn’t been time.

‘Nowhere, sir,’ he hears Merlin respond. ‘I taught myself.’

‘Where?’ Valiant, the oldest boy in the band, sneers. ‘In the gutters?’

‘Stinks like he was in them, too,’ one of Valiant’s cronies adds, and there are loud guffaws from the group.

Brother Aredian ignores them, and Arthur feels a pang of anger. Surely such remarks deserve a telling-off.

‘You play well enough,’ Brother Aredian says shortly. ‘Come see me after hours if you want some formal lessons. Right, everyone, same time tomorrow. Pendragon, stay behind and collect the music sheets.’

‘Cocksucker,’ Valiant’s voice says in Arthur’s ear. It’s no secret that Brother Aredian has his ‘favourites’.

Before Arthur can think of a response, there is a crash and Valiant’s music case goes skittering across the floor.

‘ _Gabh mo leithscéal_ ,’ Merlin says with excessive politeness, carefully sliding his fine-looking flute into the inside pocket of his coat. ‘That’s ‘begging your pardon’ where I come from.’

Arthur holds back a grin, meeting Merlin’s eyes. Merlin gives him a warm grin before he turns and leaves the room.

‘That’s enough of that,’ Brother Aredian snaps as Valiant starts for the door, his face like murder. ‘Go on, go home. I don’t want any trouble here, you hear me?’

Arthur waits until the other boys have left before going to each player’s stand and collecting the sheets of music. He stacks them up neatly on Brother Aredian’s desk.

‘Light the candles as well,’ Brother Aredian says when he sees that Arthur has completed his chore.

In the gathering darkness, he lights each candle in the chapel, leaving them shining like little stars in the gloom. When he reaches the altar to light the candles there, Brother Aredian stops him with a hand on his wrist. ‘I’ll light those later. Come, pray with me.’

His hand on the back of Arthur’s neck leaves him with no choice but to be guided to his knees. The Brother’s hand is still around his neck as he kneels beside Arthur, and his arm tightens as he reaches to stroke Arthur’s cheek. ‘Get your hair out of your eyes, boy. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?’

‘Of course, I was forgetting,’ he continues as Arthur pushes his fringe away from his face. ‘You don’t remember your mother, do you?’ 

Arthur keeps his gaze on the unlit candles. Brother Aredian’s hand travels down his cheek, over his neck and under his shirt, tracing his collarbone. His hand returns to Arthur’s jaw, forcing his chin up, directing his gaze to the altar. ‘Look at her, my boy. The Holy Mother protects us all, even if we have no mothers of our own.’

They pray for thirty minutes, Arthur repeating every line of the Latin prayer after Brother Aredian. The priest is so close that Arthur can feel the brush of his unshaven jaw against his cheek.

‘Remember to say your prayers, Pendragon,’ Aredian says as Arthur puts his flute into his bag, preparing to leave. ‘They are the only protection we have against the pure evil that is sorcery.’

\--

Arthur takes the long route home again, pausing by the wall that overlooks the promenade and, beyond it, the dark sea crashing against the cliff. 

Sometimes, the sea reminds him of his mother. He knows nothing of her, except for the fact that she died during a voyage on a ship and was buried at sea. The only photograph of her hangs in a frame in his father’s room, and she is never spoken about. At times he dreams of her swimming below the surface of the sea, seaweeds tangled in her streaming hair. 

‘Dia duit,’ a voice calls out. Merlin emerges from the shadows. ‘What kept you so long?’

‘You were waiting?’ Arthur asks as Merlin comes closer. He has a bunch of tulips clutched in his hand.

‘Just wanted to say hello,’ Merlin shrugs. He leaps lightly on to the wall beside Arthur, straddling it. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t actually smell. They just say that because I’m a garbage-collector.’

If anything, Arthur thinks as Merlin fidgets before settling beside him, Merlin smells like the sea, wild and salty.

‘For my ma,’ Merlin says, waving the tulips. ‘The chapel garden’s got loads of them.’

Arthur laughs. ‘So you helped yourself?’

‘I call it redistribution,’ Merlin grins. Abruptly, he changes the subject. ‘You remember the soaps?’

‘I do,’ Arthur says, watching the sky behind Merlin’s head, the way his hair blends with the night, stars blinking over him.

It had been the last time he had seen Merlin as a child, seven years ago. Merlin and his stepfather had arrived at the store one evening, when Arthur had been helping his father stack potatoes and onions on the shelves beside the window. Merlin had been small for his age then, and extremely thin, his worn old coat hanging off his shoulders. As Merlin’s father had engaged Arthur’s in conversation, Arthur had noticed Merlin slip some cakes of soap into his coat pocket.

He’d seen through it immediately. Merlin’s stepfather was deliberately keeping Uther distracted, so that the boy could steal.

Realising that he had been found out, Merlin had stared pleadingly at Arthur, shaking his head. After several moments of consideration, Arthur had nodded.

Later the same evening, when he’d been returning from delivering the evening paper, Merlin had stepped out of an alley into his path.

‘Here,’ he said, handing Arthur five cakes of soap. ‘Please, don’t be taking me for a thief.’

‘I wouldn’t have said anything,’ Arthur said.

‘But you’d still be thinking me a thief.’

Arthur took hold of the front of Merlin’s coat, pulling him into the light of the lamppost behind them. A livid bruise had risen on his cheek. ‘He hit you,’ Arthur said. ‘You wouldn’t give him the soaps and he hit you.’

Merlin shrugged. ‘He hits me much worse if I don’t do’s he says. Good luck with the scholarship results.’

‘Good luck to you, too,’ Arthur said as Merlin disappeared into the darkness, small and fragile. The results were out the next day. They’d both won scholarships, but Merlin never came back to school.

‘It was good of you to not say anything,’ Merlin says now. Leaning his head back and letting the wind play with his hair.

Arthur shrugs. ‘You gave them back. There was no harm done.’ He pushes himself away from the wall. ‘I have to be getting home,’ he says, wishing to be able to stay.

‘Can I walk with you a bit?’ Merlin asks, swinging himself off the wall. Arthur nods.

‘I heard you got your scholarship and all,’ Merlin says as they walk.

‘So did you.’

‘I did, but they sent me up to Ealdor to work. My mother’s village,’ Merlin explains. 

‘I thought we could have been friends, then.’

‘So did I,’ Merlin smiles. ‘It’s not too late, is it?’

‘No,’ Arthur says. ‘I’m glad you’re back.’

‘Here, hold on to these a bit,’ Merlin says, pushing the tulips into Arthur’s hand as they pass a wall covered with anti-magic propaganda posters. _Join the Army!_ they proclaim. _Be proud to serve your Church and Country! Fight the righteous fight against sorcery!_ Reaching up, Merlin tears several of the posters off. 

‘Merlin, if someone sees you doing that—’

‘I’ll be quick, then,’ Merlin says grimly. 

‘You’re a supporter of magic?’

‘Was born with it,’ Merlin says shortly, kicking the torn posters aside and starting to walk again.

Stunned, Arthur stares after him for a moment before hurrying to catch up. ‘I never knew.’

‘I couldn’t very well broadcast it at school, could I?’

‘But you—you don’t practise it, do you?’

‘What if I do?’ Merlin reaches over to retrieve his flowers, his fingers warm against Arthur’s wrist for a moment.

‘I—Merlin, they’d kill you for that.’

Before Merlin can answer, they hear a drunken voice shouting obscenities down the street.

Merlin turns to Arthur. ‘Look, will you keep this for me?’ he pushes his flute into Arthur’s hand.

‘That’s your father,’ Arthur realises, looking at the drunken man.

‘Stepfather. Look, will you just take this and go?’

‘But—’

‘He’ll take it away if he sees it. He’ll pawn or sell it,’ Merlin says urgently. ‘Arthur, please.’

Arthur clasps the flute in his hands, stumbling as Merlin shoves at him. ‘Go, please, just go.’

Arthur turns away without a word, hearing Merlin’s boots against the cobbled street as he walks toward the drunken man.

‘Whoreson,’ he hears the man shout. ‘This fucking whoreson’s all I got to call mine.’ Unable to help himself, Arthur turns back to see the man swing his arm and strike the side of Merlin’s head so hard that he’s thrown to the ground. The flowers scatter across the street like small white birds struck dead.

Forcing himself to stay hidden in the shadows, Arthur watches as Merlin picks himself up and slings his stepfather’s arm around his shoulders to guide him home. 

\--

‘There’s bread and jam for your supper,’ his father says when Arthur gets home. He’s sitting at the table, polishing his medals.

Sitting down at the table, Arthur spreads the jam as thinly as he can, wondering if Merlin will have any food that night. His face must hurt from the blow. His own father has never lifted a hand against him. He pushes down the sickening feeling that rises in his guts at the memory of seeing Merlin get struck like that. 

‘What kept you so long?’ his father asks, without looking up from his task.

‘Brother Aredian kept me back for prayers, father.’

Finishing his bread, he moves to a corner and carefully polishes both flutes with almond oil, looking guiltily at his father every now and then. The oil isn’t cheap. He’s careful not to reveal both instruments at once, not wanting his father to know that he’s keeping Merlin’s safe for him, unsure of why he wants to hide the fact.

He doesn’t have to ask his father why the medals are out; Lance’s absence has been taking its toll on them both, the house too quiet without him.

It’s not too long before his father starts to talk, as he almost always does when his medals are out: about the war, the rightness of fighting for a just cause. 

‘Did you know Mum then? During the war?’ 

‘No, that was after.’ 

His father doesn’t seem too averse to talking about his mother, so Arthur presses on. ‘Did she like your being a soldier?’

‘What sort of question is that?’ his father snaps. ‘There’s nothing to like or dislike about doing one’s duty, Arthur. Your mother knew that.’ He returns the shining medals to their box. ‘It’s Lancelot we must think of now. When his training is complete, he’ll be proud to wear his uniform and march.’

Arthur can’t help but smile at the memory of Lance’s departure: amidst all the excitement of the townsfolk at the parade before their soldiers departed, Lance had gathered Gwen into his arms and kissed her in the street, uncaring of everyone else. Uther had been torn between pride at his son’s vocation and exasperation at the public display of inappropriate affection.

‘Look after them,’ Lance had said before boarding his ship, his hand on the nape of Arthur’s neck. ‘And yourself, you hear me?’ Then he’d saluted Uther, thrown Arthur a cheerful wink, and walked arm-in-arm with Gwen to the gangplank.

He yawns suddenly, the day catching up to him without his realising it. ‘Go on, off to bed with you,’ Uther says. ‘I’ll turn down the lamps.’

It had been Lance who had always blown off the lamps at night and shut the door. Arthur bolts the door before heading upstairs and getting into his night-clothes. Retrieving Merlin’s flute from his book-bag, he wraps it in an old shirt and slips it under his pillow, his eyes shutting even as he extinguishes his small lamp, Lance’s empty bed beside his the last thing he sees before sleep overcomes him.

\--

‘Nice skirt,’ Merlin grins, giving Arthur an appraising look. The band is wearing its uniform, bright white shirts and scarlet kilts. ‘D’you like mine?’ He twirls, revealing the dark hairs peeking from the tops of his stockings.

Arthur laughs. Brother Aredian knocks his baton against his easel, trying to bring them to order, and there is great chaos and laughter as everyone tries to get to his place without tripping over music-cases and discarded trousers and sweaters.

‘Settle quickly,’ Aredian says irritably. ‘Father Taylor will be here any minute.’

After their dress rehearsal, during which they play a patriotic tune for the head of Aredian’s brotherhood, Arthur finds an empty classroom—changing in the bathrooms is too risky, with Valiant and his gang always looking for trouble—and changes thankfully out of the stiff, thick kilt, pulling on his trousers and black wool sweater.

‘How about a walk?’ Merlin asks as he returns to the chapel to retrieve his bag. He presses his flute into Arthur’s hand as they walk, and Arthur slides it into his bag without a word.

‘Sure. Where to?’

‘Forty Foot? Come on, then!’ Merlin leaps gracefully over a bench, already halfway out the door before Arthur hears Brother Aredian’s voice behind him.

‘Pendragon, collect the music sheets.’

‘I’ll wait for you,’ Merlin mouths at him before disappearing.

When Arthur leaves the school gates thirty minutes later, he can feel Aredian’s eyes on his back, watching him through the blinds of his window. The blinds are securely drawn, but the outline of the man standing behind them is clearly visible. Since Merlin has begun waiting for him after practice, Aredian has sullenly let him go after he collects the music sheets, with no more orders for after-practice prayers. ‘Lie down with dogs and you’ll rise with fleas,’ he admonishes as Arthur leaves, scowling in the direction of the street.

‘He’s my friend,’ Arthur says shortly, and hitches his bag on to his shoulder and leaves before Brother Aredian can launch into yet another lecture about how loneliness is preferable to bad company.

Merlin greets him cheerfully, pushing himself away from the wall he’s been leaning against. ‘Took you long enough.’ He slings an arm around Arthur’s shoulders as they walk, but it doesn’t stay there for more than ten paces, because Merlin cannot walk soberly; he swings around lampposts, stops to scratch the ears of dogs on the street, and spins pebbles in the dust without touching them.

‘Merlin,’ Arthur warns as a pebble rolls merrily along in front of Merlin’s feet. 

‘You’re no fun,’ Merlin laughs, but he stops and picks up the pebble, beginning to toss it into the air instead.

‘There they are again,’ a voice calls out, stilling their feet. ‘The dung-collector and his girlfriend.’

Valiant and his crew are grouped at the end of the lane. Valiant takes a drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke into the air above his head.

‘Ignore them,’ Merlin says quietly.

A stream of spittle lands on the ground at their feet. Forgetting his own advice, Merlin rounds on the group. ‘What is your problem, Valiant? You got something to say, say it.’

Valiant leans in close to Merlin, sniffing the air. ‘There’s that lovely fragrance again.’

Merlin grabs the front of his coat. ‘Say another word and I’ll make you eat it, Valiant.’

Valiant presses a fingertip into Merlin’s throat where it’s exposed through the V of his shirt-front. ‘You’re becoming a pain in the arse, garbage-boy. Go home to your slum, and take your girlfriend with you.’

Arthur puts his hand on Merlin’s arm. ‘Let’s go.’

Merlin and Valiant stare each other down for another moment, Valiant adjusting his coat. Arthur squeezes Merlin’s arm as imperceptibly as he can. Merlin turns to him, sees the look in Arthur’s eyes, and nods, letting himself be led away, but not before he spits at Valiant’s feet.

‘What is their problem?’ Merlin snaps as they approach the beach. ‘Are they always like that?’

‘It’s best to just ignore them, Merlin.’

‘Do they give you trouble?’ Merlin grabs the front of Arthur’s sweater with both his hands. ‘You tell me if they lay a hand on you, you hear me?’

‘They won’t,’ Arthur says reassuringly. He can feel Merlin’s fingers pressed into his chest, scrunching the wool beneath them. ‘They’re all bark and no bite, trust me.’

‘Just be careful,’ Merlin says, releasing him.

‘Are we really going to go up to the cliff? It’ll be dark soon,’ Arthur says as they resume walking.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall into the sea,’ Merlin laughs, and the sound releases some of the coiled-up tension from Arthur’s spine. Merlin’s arm is around his shoulders again. Arthur is getting used to Merlin’s casual touches by now: a hand on his arm when they laugh, a quick squeeze of his knee as they sit beside each other on a wall. He’s never been touched quite like that before, not even by Lance; it’s as though every touch translates itself into a discovery of sorts, not just Merlin discovering him, but Arthur discovering himself.

They climb over the sea-wall together, scrambling down the rocks to the beach, passing the empty bathing-houses and taking their boots off, their toes sinking into the wet sand.

Merlin scoops up a wave and hurls the sea-water at Arthur, making him splutter. Laughing, he runs before Arthur can retaliate. And then he’s chasing Merlin, waves lapping at their running feet, the wind hitting them, both of them laughing with delight.

Catching up, Arthur tackles Merlin around the waist and brings them both to the ground, still laughing, mostly out of breath. Merlin’s leg lands over Arthur’s and they both let it be. Their feet remain in the water, bathed by the waves.

It’s a while before Arthur sits up, removing his leg from under Merlin’s.

‘Water too cold?’ Merlin asks, sounding content with the world.

‘No, not at all.’

‘Ever bathed in the sea?’

‘They take us swimming to the bathing-house in town, at school.’

‘Come and swim in the sea with me.’ Merlin’s fingers are warm against the small of Arthur’s back, tracing desultory patterns into his skin.

‘I’m not a strong enough swimmer to swim in the sea.’

‘I’ll teach you,’ Merlin says. ‘Say you’ll come, Arthur.’

Arthur leans back, his elbows in the sand. ‘When?’

‘Sunday? During mass.’

‘I can’t miss church, Merlin.’

‘You’re been listening to Aredian too much. Cabbage-headed fool, he is.’ Without waiting for a reply, Merlin digs his flute out of Arthur’s bag and begins playing a tune: Aredian’s patriotic song, but to the beat of a jig.

Arthur begins to laugh. After a while, the tune changes to something slower, more melancholy, a song that Arthur doesn’t know. Merlin plays like he performs magic, sure and steady, letting the movements of his hands and mouth guide him. The music swirls around them, clear and sweet, kept around them by the high, rocky wall of the cliff behind them. Arthur closes his eyes and lets it wrap around him.

‘Thanks for oiling it for me,’ Merlin says later, when he’s stopped playing; something of the song still remains in the air, wrapped around Arthur, like the warmth from a recently-extinguished fire.

Arthur shrugs. ‘I was doing my own anyway.’

‘Oil isn’t cheap.’ Merlin wraps his flute up and puts it back into Arthur’s bag.

‘Where did you learn to play like that?’

Merlin lies back against the sand again, happily lazy. ‘You like it?’

‘It’s beautiful.’

Merlin smiles. ‘In Ealdor, from my mother’s people. They’re Druids, you know.’ He murmurs something in his native tongue, softly, stretching out his hand along the sand. A ball of soft blue light appears in his palm, its circumference blurred as wisps of light escape it, drifting into the night air.

Arthur holds his breath. ‘Can I—’

‘Yeah.’ Merlin rolls over so his hand is between their bodies, and Arthur reaches with his fingertips to touch the light gently. His fingers go through into nothing, the light warm around them. Even warmer is the heat from Merlin’s skin, his palm millimetres from Arthur’s fingertips.

‘Cara macree,’ Merlin says quietly, looking at Arthur’s face.

‘What does that mean?’

Merlin closes his hand, and the light vanishes. ‘In the language of my mother’s people, it means _friend of my heart_.’

Arthur is silent for a moment, listening to the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. ‘I looked for you. When I heard you were leaving school. I thought I’d say goodbye.’

‘I thought of you when I was in Ealdor. I thought you might have liked it there.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘It’s a tiny island, like that one over there.’ Merlin gestures to the tall, ragged shape visible far beyond the waves. ‘We can go there someday, if you like. See the shore there, see how every shore is different but still the same, somehow.’ He sits up. ‘I won’t blame you if you prefer going swimming from school.’

‘The sea will be a challenge, though.’

‘It is. There’s many grown men scared of swimming in it. Not me, though. I won’t drown.’

‘How do you know?’

Merlin laughs. ‘I’m born to face a firing-squad, aren’t I?’ he takes the pebble from his pocket and tosses it into the sea. ‘Want to know how I learnt to swim?’

‘How?’

‘Himself pushed me into the sea, one time.’ ‘Himself’ is how he refers to his stepfather.

‘What happened?’ Arthur asks, appalled.

‘He jumped in after me and pulled me out. Said it’s a trick they teach them in the army, to force a man to learn.’ Merlin laughs humourlessly. ‘I’ll tell you, I was careful to stay away from him when we were by the sea, after that. But I jumped in on my own, when he wasn’t around, and I taught myself.’ He looks up abruptly. ‘Do you smell cigarette smoke?’

He jumps to his feet and looks up at the cliff, swearing under his breath, squinting in the darkness.

‘Who is it? Who are you looking for?’ Arthur asks.

‘No one.’ Merlin brushes the sand off his clothes.

‘Tell me, Merlin.’

Merlin shrugs. ‘Met a guy at the bathing house. Posh type. Said he walks by the beach, sometimes. I don’t want to bump into him tonight, that’s all. So, are we swimming on Sunday?’

‘Brother Aredian takes me to the Men’s Mass. He says I have a vocation there. That my mother would have liked me to join the priesthood.’

Merlin exhales softly. ‘Why would she want that?’

‘Wouldn’t any mother?’

They walk quietly back up to the road, taking the steps through the deserted bathing-house. ‘Know what my mother wanted for me?’ Merlin asks. ‘To be a garbage-boy. And haven’t I made her proud?’

‘Idiot,’ Arthur says affectionately, and Merlin’s arm returns to his shoulders as they walk.

\--

‘Cook threw a pan at me,’ Gwaine says indignantly, stepping in through the garden door. 

Morgana, intent on papers at her desk, doesn’t even bother to look up. ‘I’m sure you deserved it. Were you trying to flirt with Gwen again?’

‘You know I don’t mean anything by it,’ Gwaine says, wrapping his arms around her and giving her a loud kiss on her cheek. ‘Just trying to get my mind off my addiction to cocks. And ar—’

‘Shut your filthy mouth or I’ll have you thrown out on your backside, houseguest or not,’ Morgana says mildly.

Gwaine laughs uproariously, flinging himself into an armchair and lighting a cigarette. ‘I see the priest’s left you in a sweet mood.’

‘Dirty, filthy, disgusting man,’ Morgana says, and for a moment Gwaine isn’t sure if she’s referring to him or the priest. ‘He wants me to sponsor new uniforms for his band of schoolboys.’

‘Ah, sweet little boys in skirts. Be still, my heart.’ Gwaine clutches his chest.

‘They’re kilts,’ Morgana says shortly. ‘And you are not to touch any of them.’

‘The kilts, or the—’

‘Shut up, you predictable slut. The general store will be sending a delivery of stockings for my approval this afternoon. Collect it if you’re here, will you?’

‘And where will you be?’

‘Not that it’s any of your concern,’ Morgana says, reaching over to snatch his cigarette. She takes a long drag, blowing the smoke up at the ceiling. ‘I’m going on a drive, maybe up to the hills.’

‘One of these days, you’re going to kill someone with that car of yours and create a scandal. Why don’t you get a chauffeur?’ Gwaine steals his cigarette back.

‘You mean like the one you were caught consorting with, and had to flee over here?’

‘Yeah,’ Gwaine grins. ‘Exactly like that one.’

Morgana snorts. ‘And you accuse me of scandal.’

Gwaine’s mind is already wandering. A whole afternoon with the house to himself. Perfect.

\--

‘Father?’

‘What is it?’ His father looks up from a package he’s sealing, and Arthur steels himself.

‘There’s... something I’ve been wanting to ask you about. It... it may not be considered an appropriate topic of conversation.’ 

His father glances up, looking faintly surprised. ‘Don’t do it,’ he says, and returns to his task.

‘Don’t do what?’

‘When you feel the urge, say your prayers. Wrap your rosary around your hands if you have to, before you go to sleep. It will leave you insane if you give in to it.’

Arthur’s never wished more fervently for the ground to split and swallow him whole.

‘I want you to deliver this after lunch,’ his father says. When Arthur doesn’t reply, he looks up. ‘Was there anything else?’

‘It’s—I wanted to ask you about magic.’ If anything, the topic is even more rarely discussed in the Pendragon household than that of Arthur’s mother.

\--

Merlin isn’t waiting for Arthur outside the chapel after practice, and Brother Aredian is quick to notice his absence, asking Arthur to stay back for prayers.

Arthur collects the music sheets and then kneels before the altar. Brother Aredian’s hand slips into his shirt as they kneel together, rubbing his collarbone. ‘Have you given any thought to your vocation?’

The question reminds Arthur of his conversation with his father, gives him a place to escape to in his head while Aredian’s hand roams over his skin. He remembers Merlin’s words: _friend of my heart_. There’d been almost something holy about the way he’d said them, his face aglow with the light from his sphere of magic.

‘I was sixteen when I dedicated myself to the church,’ Aredian goes on, unmindful of Arthur’s silence. ‘Younger even than you are now. It saved me from myself, you know. Do you ever engage in the solitary vice, Pendragon?’

The hand was at his throat now, pressing down almost painfully. ‘Do you know what a sin it is? I knew, even as a boy. What made things worse was that I wanted to share it with others, solicit other boys. Do you know what that means, Pendragon? To solicit another boy?’

‘I think so, Brother.’

‘You will not solicit another boy, nor respond if you are solicited. Do you understand?’ Aredian’s breath is warm and damp against his cheek, and his hand grasps Arthur’s throat tightly, holding him in place. 

Arthur lets out a muted gasp of pain. ‘Your hand—please, you’re hurting me.’

The door slams open behind them, and Aredian lets go of Arthur and springs to his feet. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he snarls. ‘Have you not learnt to knock?’

Merlin steps in through the doorway. ‘I’m waiting for Arthur,’ he says, his voice shaking with suppressed rage.

\--

‘Don’t,’ Arthur says as they walk. ‘Don’t say anything.’

Merlin says nothing throughout the walk to the Forty Foot, and Arthur begins to fear that he is disgusted with what he’d witnessed, with Arthur himself. He leaves Arthur behind as they go down the rocky path to the beach, and Arthur reaches the shore a few minutes behind Merlin to see him flinging bolts of flaming light at the rocks at the bottom of the cliff, shattering them.

‘Merlin, stop!’ Arthur cries. ‘You’ll bring the cliff down. Merlin!’

Merlin pays him no attention. Snarling at the sky, he summons another bolt of magical lightning to split a huge boulder, which shatters with a resounding crack.

‘Merlin, you’re scaring me. Please.’ Summoning his courage, Arthur moves closer and grabs hold of Merlin’s arms from behind. ‘Stop, please stop.’

At Arthur’s touch, Merlin deflates immediately, turning around and sagging forward against him. ‘I’ll kill him,’ he whispers, fierce and furious, his body shaking against Arthur’s. ‘Just say the word, Arthur, and I’ll blow him apart like one of these rocks, I swear I will.’

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ Arthur says gently, gathering him into his arms, holding him close. ‘He’s not worth it, Merlin. Don’t think about it, please.’

Merlin holds on tightly, his fisted hands rubbing into Arthur’s back with fierce affection. For a while, there’s no sound other than the crashing of the waves against the shore.

Then Merlin says, rubbing his cheek against Arthur’s shoulder, ‘I’ll stay in the band with you for as long as I can.’

‘You’re not thinking of leaving town again?’ Arthur asks, the mere thought filling him with desolation.

Merlin shakes his head. ‘I don’t know, Arthur. I’ll—I’ll stay as long as I can. I promise.’ He leans against Arthur, pressing their foreheads together. ‘Come swimming with me, Arthur. Say you will.’

‘I don’t know if I can.’

‘Swimming in the sea, Arthur, it’s just... I can’t explain it, but it’s like leaving your worries behind on the shore. Let me show you, please. Sunday. I’ll be waiting.’

 

\--

 

'Your order of stockings, sir.' 

Gwaine watches the impossibly beautiful golden-haired boy hold out the paper-wrapped package, long, steady fingers curled around the edge. He laughs, taking pleasure in the way the boy starts at the sound. 'Do I look like I wear stockings, kid?'

A faint flush tinges the boy's cheeks, but apart from that small sign of nervousness, he maintains his composure. Impressive. 'No, sir. Of course not. They’re samples. For the school band. Sir.'

'Well, then. In you go, and leave the package on the dining-room table. My cousin will attend to the matter when she returns.' Gwaine stays in the doorway, not stepping aside to let the boy through. The result is that the young man has to squeeze through, his delicious body rubbing against Gwaine’s as he tries futilely to get through without touching him.

‘Uther’s boy, are you?’ 

‘Yes, sir.’ The boy leaves the stockings on the table, looking a little unsettled at the way Gwaine lets his eyes roam over his tall, strong form. Lovely.

He gallantly escorts the beautiful creature to the gate, pressing a generous tip into his hand. The boy mounts his bicycle and rides away without looking back. Chuckling, Gwaine makes his way to his bedroom on the floor above.

Merlin stands at the window, watching young Pendragon leave. 'You lay a hand on him,' he says, 'and you're dead, Gwaine.'

'Is that so?' Gwaine grins. ‘Friend of yours, is he?’

'I mean it. Touch him and I'll kill you.'

'Shut it and get over here,' Gwaine says, not really wanting to talk anymore.

\--

Gwaine props himself up on an elbow and watches the sleeping boy, dark hair mussed on the pillow, lips slightly parted. He’d been a real sport the previous night, pushing Gwaine’s head away from between his thighs and going down on Gwaine himself, those lovely lips wrapped tight around Gwaine’s cock, even though he’d never asked the boy to reciprocate.

He’d been able to tell that it had been Merlin’s first time, and the boy had made no secret of it, considering his cock with open curiosity before kissing it, tasting it, and opening those lips to let him into his mouth. Before long, Gwaine had placed his hand on the back of Merlin’s head and begun to thrust, unable to wait any longer. 

‘Not the best of tastes,’ Merlin had said, after he’d not unwillingly swallowed Gwaine’s come. ‘I s’pose I could get used to it, though.’

He should have sent Merlin away then, back to his home in the dead of night, and no one would have been the wiser. But he’d been far too beguiled by the boy, and unwilling to let him out of his bed.

He lets his hands wander lightly over Merlin’s bare skin, not wanting him awake yet. Such a gorgeous body, a swimmer’s body, all long lines and lithe limbs, tanned and smooth. He’d been as careful with the kid as he could bring himself to be the previous night, but now, spooned up tight behind that sweet arse, he knows he’ll have more, even if he has to pay twice the amount they’d agreed on. He slides a finger between the firm cheeks, rubs against the hair over the tender skin, finds the faint pulse at the boy’s perineum. 

It has to be done now, while the boy’s asleep; negotiation will take far too long. Far better to do the deed and then talk about the rest. He slicks himself up and pushes into Merlin slowly, not wanting to hurt him more than necessary.

Merlin moans as he comes awake, and Gwaine doesn’t fool himself than it’s a moan of pleasure rather than pain. He clamps a hand over the boy’s mouth to stop him from crying out. ‘There,’ he murmurs against Merlin’s ear, and kisses his damp cheek. ‘There, the worst is over.’

He thrusts again, slowly, imagining the sweet burn of it, licking Merlin’s earlobe to distract him and mouthing kisses down the lovely line of his throat, sucking a bruise into the top of his spine. Merlin whimpers against his palm, shaking his head, trying to get his mouth free. Gwaine lets his hand fall away, tracing a path down the front of Merlin’s body, finding his sleeping cock and coaxing it to hardness.

‘Bastard,’ Merlin gasps, thrusting back against Gwaine, taking his cock deeper, and Gwaine feels as though his very soul is being clamped in a sweet, sweet vice, making his insides and his delighted cock thrum with pleasure. ‘Stay the night, you said. I won’t jump you.’

‘Shouldn’t have slept with your sweet back to me, then,’ Gwaine says, beginning to lose himself now, fucking the boy with abandon. Twisting his fingers into Merlin’s hair, he tugs his head to the side and kisses him as best he can. Merlin’s lips part instantly, letting Gwaine’s tongue in, and they rock together to orgasm, Gwaine keeping up his stroking as he spills inside the boy.

‘Who’s Galahad?’ Merlin asks, propping himself up on an elbow as he watches Gwaine move to the desk and light a cigarette.

‘Why?’

‘You said his name. When you were coming.’

Gwaine shrugs. ‘Someone I used to know. Dead now.’

Merlin’s extraordinary eyes keep watching him, and Gwaine looks away to find his pocketbook, taking out twice the amount they’d agreed on.

‘Generous,’ Merlin acknowledges with a nod, slipping the money into the pocket of his trousers before pulling them on. 

He watches Merlin leave from the side-gate, the one that leads to the cliff-path. He’d expected a tantrum, a demand for more payment, but Merlin has escaped him, defied his expectations and taken on a life of his own.

 _Rapist_ , Galahad’s voice smirks inside his head.

‘Is that what I am, now?’ He watches the road until Merlin disappears from sight, sunlight dancing in his dark, dark hair.

_Indeed. You see lamb dressed as mutton, and are quick to go for the kill._

 

\--

 

Arthur pauses by the chapel wall. It’s Sunday morning and the masses are pushing past him, in a hurry to get to the service. Beside the wall, the lane leads to the sea.

He slips away quietly, recklessness thrumming in his blood like a song.

\--

‘Didn’t think you’d come,’ Merlin says. ‘What changed your mind?’

Arthur shrugs. ‘It’s a sunny day.’ Getting a closer look at Merlin, he frowns. ‘You’ve circles under your eyes. Haven’t you been sleeping well?’

‘Never mind that,’ Merlin says, pushing away from the wall and heading toward the bathing house. ‘Come on, we’ll have the place to ourselves at this time.’

By the time Arthur goes in, Merlin is already kicking his boots off, throwing his coat aside. ‘Well, what’re you waiting for? Get your kit off.’

‘I—I have a costume,’ Arthur says quickly.

Merlin rolls his eyes. ‘Arthur, dearest, you gotta swim naked in the sea, all right? Trust me.’ He pulls his shirt over his head without bothering to undo the buttons, and slips out of his trousers.

Completely unselfconscious, he walks to the edge of the cliff and crouches on one knee, gauging the distance between them and the water below. Arthur, spellbound, cannot take his eyes off Merlin. He seems to glow in the morning sunlight, his hair shining, and Arthur can’t help but wonder what his skin would feel like to the touch, if it would be as soft and warm as it looks.

Arthur strips down to his swimming trunks, and then hesitates. 

Merlin glances at him over his shoulder. ‘If you’re hard, don’t worry about it. It’s just ’cause you’re nervous,’ he grins.

‘I’m not nervous,’ Arthur protests. Taking a deep breath, he shoves his costume down and steps out of it.

‘Oh yeah?’ Merlin grins at him, gazing unabashedly, and Arthur’s sure his face is a little red. ‘How many times have you jumped into the sea?’

‘Never,’ Arthur admits. 

‘I won’t let anything happen to you,’ Merlin says. ‘Trust me?’

‘I trust you.’

Merlin straightens, and clasps his hand. ‘Together, okay?’

Arthur nods, squeezing Merlin’s hand. Magic wraps around him like a warm blanket, soft and fuzzy.

They jump, Merlin letting out a wild yell of glee as they plummet toward the cold, sparkling water. Arthur feels the breath knocked out of him as he hits the surface and is pulled under immediately. Beneath the surface, everything is green and freezing, and for a moment he is overcome by blind panic. He kicks out toward the surface, his lungs burning.

Gasping, he emerges into the strong sunlight and almost immediately feels Merlin’s arm around him, steadying him as they both tread water.

‘God, you’re brave,’ Merlin says.

Arthur laughs, still trying to catch his breath. ‘Not really. I knew I wouldn’t drown. Your magic would have saved me.’

‘Always,’ Merlin says, brushing Arthur’s wet hair out of his eyes. ‘And you’re still very brave, because I say so.’

Arthur shakes his head, smiling. ‘Must you always have the last word?’

‘Absolutely. Now, come on. We’re going to swim to that raft over there, okay?’

Arthur swims the fifty feet to the raft easily enough, reaching before Merlin and pulling himself on to the old, creaking platform of wood. 

‘Show off.’ Smiling, Merlin climbs on beside him. ‘Tired?’

‘A bit. Seriously, though, are you sure you’re all right? You look exhausted.’

Merlin shrugs. ‘Didn’t get much sleep.’ He stretches out beside Arthur, folding his arms beneath his chin. Glancing at his back, Arthur sees a few red marks on the smooth skin, just below the nape of Merlin’s neck. Flushing, he looks away. 

‘It’s not what you think,’ Merlin says quietly, looking at the sea, the ring of cliffs beyond.

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘You didn’t have to.’ Rolling over, Merlin sits up and wraps his arms around his knees. ‘I just—Arthur, just believe me when I say there’s no one else I’d rather be here with.’

Swallowing, Arthur nods. ‘You don’t have to explain. Really. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Doesn’t matter that I slept with someone?’ Merlin says softly, not looking at Arthur.

‘I didn’t mean... Merlin, don’t put words in my mouth.’

Merlin turns to Arthur, his eyes wide with alarm. ‘This doesn’t change anything? Arthur? You’ll still come swimming with me, won’t you?’

‘Don’t be an idiot, Merlin. Of course I will.’ Arthur cuffs him gently on the chin, rubbing his knuckles against Merlin’s face until he smiles.

‘I want to swim over there, one day.’ Merlin points to the little island in the distance, the one with the lighthouse, at least a few hundred feet away. ‘You’ll come with me, won’t you?’

‘I don’t know if I can swim that far.’

‘We’ll practice. Every week, until we’re ready. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ Arthur says, and it seems as though he’s agreeing to more than just swimming.

Merlin clasps Arthur’s hand in both of his, and hugs it to his chest. Arthur lets him, feeling shaken and yet, somehow, needed.

 

\--

 

‘You did what?’ Gwaine is half-amused, half-shocked.

‘I didn’t do it intentionally, obviously,’ Morgana says, pulling off her long white gloves and tossing them on the desk. ‘The man just got in my way.’

‘I told you that motorcar of yours would kill someone one day.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, he merely has a leg injury,’ Morgana says carelessly. ‘And it’s his fault. Everyone who witnessed it says so.’

‘As long as you don’t bring him here to recuperate, I don’t care. The man’s a slimeball.’

‘For once, we agree on something.’ Morgana slides a cigarette into her long holder and lights it. ‘But I must appear charitable.’

Gwaine eyes her warily. ‘And why are you telling me this?’

‘You play the flute, don’t you?’ Morgana smiles sweetly.

‘I really don’t like the sound of where this is going. If you think I’m going to play in some church band—’

‘Not at all. You’re merely to coach the band until Aredian is better.’

Gwaine grins. ‘You’re letting me play with the boys in kilts? You must be desperate.’

‘Well, I’m also the one who hands out your allowance. Don’t forget that.’

‘You’re a mean bitch, Morgana Le Fay.’

‘Oh, shut it. You should be thanking me. And it’ll do you good to get your nose out of your manuscript for a bit.’

‘It isn’t mine. It was a friend’s. His life’s work, in fact.’

‘Oh?’ Morgana sounds mildly interested. ‘And why can’t you friend complete his research himself?’

‘Because he’s dead,’ Gwaine says shortly. ‘He died in prison. Can you imagine, Morgana? A scholar dying of malnutrition and exhaustion? And all for the crime of being a homosexual.’

Morgana watches him silently for a moment. ‘You must have loved him very much.’

‘He belonged in libraries, in classrooms,’ Gwaine says softly. ‘And they sentenced him to two years’ hard labour.’ He glances up at Morgana. ‘Do you truly believe I can coach a school band? That any society would want me?’

‘I _am_ society, darling. Don’t worry. You’re respectable if I say you are.’

 

\--

 

He wanders out for a walk in the afternoon, his fingers stained with ink and aching after hours of writing. There’s nothing calming about the crowds on the street, the tramlines and the horse-carriages, but the air clears his lungs. He buys a couple of days’ supply of cigarettes from a street vendor and leans against a wall to smoke, idly watching the traffic passing by.

A boy on a bicycle catches his eye. Gwaine watches as he brings the cycle to a stop by the footpath. His legs are long and fit, covered snugly by dark corduroys. The boy with the stockings, Merlin’s friend. His golden hair catches the sunlight appealingly, and Gwaine gazes until the boy feels eyes on him and looks in Gwaine’s direction. Gwaine smiles, and the boy half-smiles before turning away.

 _By god_ , Gwaine thinks. _If this fucking country were a boy, I’d happily die fighting for it._

 

\--

 

‘Tea’s on the table,’ Hunith calls out as Merlin stumbles blearily into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

‘Thanks, Ma. What’s got you working so early?’

‘Big pile of linen from Madame Le Fay’s house,’ his mother says, nodding in the direction of the sheets soaking in the tub. ‘She’s got a cousin staying with her, apparently, and their servants can’t cope with all the load.’

‘Let me do those. You’ve got enough to do.’

‘Haven’t you got your swimming?’

Merlin shrugs. ‘It won’t take too much time.’

Hunith gives him a sharp look. ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’

‘No,’ Merlin says quickly. ‘I just want to help, that’s all.’

Gulping down his tea and feeling a little more awake, he pumps water into a bucket and rinses the expensive sheets before hanging them up to dry. As he’s finishing, his mother comes out to give him a handful of clothespins.

‘Ma?’ Merlin says as she starts to go back inside. She turns around, looking at him expectantly. ‘You never asked where I got the money to get my flute back.’

There’s a moment of silence. ‘I know you didn’t steal it,’ his mother says finally, laying a hand on his arm.

‘No. No, I didn’t. I just—I just wanted you to know.’

She touches his cheek briefly. ‘I knew my boy wouldn’t.’

She goes back inside. He watches her for a minute before he leaves, the white sheets clean and wet and shining behind him.

 

\--

 

‘I was worried when you were late,’ Arthur admits as they lie side by side on the raft, the sun warming their bare backs. 

Merlin trails a hand in the water. ‘I’m fine. Come on, let’s swim back. I’m starving.’ They don’t eat before swimming for fear of cramps, but Arthur brings bread along and Merlin brings onions, and they make a breakfast of it when they get back to shore.

Band practice is now three days a week, no longer at the chapel but at the outhouse of the mansion where their new instructor stays. Merlin hasn’t spoken privately to Gwaine since practice resumed after Brother Aredian’s accident. They’ve exchanged a few glances, though, and a couple of times Merlin is sure Arthur has noticed, but Arthur hasn’t said anything about it. 

‘He seems lonely,’ Arthur observes once as he packs both their flutes into his bag, referring to Gwaine. Merlin makes a non-committal sound, and Arthur doesn’t bring up the subject again.

They usually walk together after practice until they come to a fork in the road when they part ways, Arthur heading up the hill and Merlin turning left into the shabbier neighbourhood where he lives. One evening they pass a gathering in the main street, a crowd gathered around a small makeshift platform on which a man is standing. Many of the listeners as well as the speaker are wearing green arm-bands, the sign of the Citizen Army.

‘Wait a bit,’ Merlin says, tugging at Arthur’s sleeve. ‘I want to hear him.’

‘Merlin, this is illegal. The police could be here any minute.’

They stand there for a few minutes anyway, listening to the speaker make impassioned pleas for the rights of the working class. It’s a thinly-disguised call for revolution, to fight for the rights of magic-users, for everyone is aware that most members of the Citizen Army are magic-users. Merlin’s magic stirs under his skin as he listens, even as he holds on to Arthur’s sleeve.

‘Such is the destiny of heroes,’ says the speaker. ‘To follow the call that leads to battle, to embrace your fate joyfully, to follow your destiny to your death, if need be.’

 

\--

 

The speaker’s words are passionate, inspiring, instilling a sense of duty even in Arthur. He glances at Merlin beside him, his face bright and beautiful. 

Pressed close to Merlin by the crowd around them, Arthur clasps his hand, unseen. Merlin squeezes his hand. Fear wraps around Arthur’s heart. _Don’t_ , he wants to say, but his voice is stuck in his throat. _Don’t listen. Don’t go._

 

\--

 

‘You’re getting better,’ Merlin says approvingly as Arthur hauls himself out of the water, passing him a towel. ‘You’re hardly even out of breath.’

Arthur ducks his head under the towel to hide his ridiculously pleased grin at the praise, and sets about drying his hair vigorously. It’s only a few seconds before he’s wrapping the cloth about his waist.

Unlike him, Merlin has no shyness at all when it comes to drying his bare, wet body after they’ve swum. He stretches languidly and luxuriously, bending over to reach between his toes, rubbing the towel against the insides of his thighs with his foot braced on a rock. Arthur has to look away when he does that, afraid that if he starts to look, he won’t be able to stop.

‘I saw the look on your face,’ Merlin says, pulling his shirt on.

‘What?’ Arthur asks, startled.

‘That day when we were listening to that man making a speech. You were impressed.’

Arthur sits down on the sand to tug on his boots. _Not by him,_ he wants to say. _It’s you I’d fight for._

Merlin sits down on a rock, gesturing with his bread-and-onion sandwich at some swimmers out in the bay. ‘The breaststroke,’ he points out. ‘That’s the way to swim if you have a pack on your shoulders and a rifle you want to keep dry.’

‘I won’t be a soldier,’ Arthur says softly.

Merlin smiles faintly. ‘You will if your father has anything to say about it.’ 

Arthur tucks his shirt into his waistband and fiddles with his tie.

‘Here, let me.’ Merlin comes over to him and takes the tie from his hands, binding it neatly in place and straightening Arthur’s collar. ‘You’ve a long nose,’ he observes, running his fingers over Arthur’s hair and patting it into place. He grins a sudden, wicked grin. ‘They say it’s a sign of what’s below.’

‘Shut up, Merlin. You and your coarse talk.’

‘Seriously, though.’ Merlin adjusts Arthur’s tie. ‘Were you ever with a girl?’

‘I don’t know any girls. Apart from Gwen, and I couldn’t think of her that way. Lance has forbidden me to.’

Merlin smiles his wide, happy smile. ‘I guess we’ll just have to make do with each other, for now.’

‘Doesn’t look like I have much of a choice,’ Arthur mock-complains.

Merlin laughs. ‘I hope you don’t mind me going on like this all the time.’

‘Some silence would be lovely, but I can hardly make you shut up.’

Merlin cups the back of Arthur’s neck with his hand, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially against his ear. ‘I’ll bet you like it.’

Arthur sucks in his breath, his senses overwhelmed by Merlin’s closeness. He wonders what Merlin would do if he leaned in for a kiss. 

Pulling away, he picks up his bag. ‘See you tonight, then.’

‘See you,’ Merlin says cheerfully. ‘Oh, and I’ll be keeping my flute with me after practice.’

It feels like being deprived of something, somehow, to not be allowed to care for Merlin’s flute. ‘Will you be practicing with Gwaine, then?’

Merlin stills, the happiness draining from him like water from a sink. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing. I thought you were friends, that’s all.’

‘He’s not my friend,’ Merlin snaps, his face tight with anger. ‘And don’t you dare imply that again.’

Arthur holds up his hands in surrender, hating that he’s ruined Merlin’s good spirits. ‘I’m sorry, Merlin. I just thought—’

‘He’s not my friend. My mother washes his fucking _sheets_. We’re not friends. Don’t you dare assume things.’

Arthur tries to reach out and touch Merlin’s arm, tries to convey how sorry he is, but Merlin shrugs his hand away, grabs his bag and leaves.

 

\--

 

Before practice that afternoon, Merlin takes his flute wordlessly from Arthur, refusing to meet his eyes. The echoes of their conversation still linger between them, and Arthur shifts uncomfortably, opening his mouth as if to say something.

Merlin feels a touch at his elbow. ‘Merlin, a word?’ Gwaine says.

He looks up then, meeting Arthur’s eyes with a defiant gaze before turning around and giving Gwaine the brightest smile that he can manage. ‘Sure,’ he says, and lets Gwaine lead him away.

‘It’s early yet,’ Gwaine says. ‘Thought you might fancy a late lunch.’

Merlin shrugs, his eyes on Arthur as he slings his bag over his shoulder and leaves the gazebo where practice is held. ‘Where?’

‘At the Pavilion Gardens? I was just going to head there.’

Merlin laughs. ‘Me at the Pavilion? That’ll be the day.’

‘Come on. It’ll be my treat.’

Merlin shakes his head. ‘Thanks, but I’d rather not.’

‘Why not?’ Gwaine holds up his hands. ‘No strings, I promise. Just lunch.’

‘No, really, I. I’ve nothing to wear to a place like that,’ Merlin admits, colouring a little.

Gwaine shrugs, grinning. ‘No problem. We’ll pick up something for you on the way.’

‘You’d buy me a suit? Just so I can have lunch with you?’

‘Is that so hard to believe?’

‘Yes,’ Merlin says flatly, turning away and picking up his bag. 

Gwaine grabs his arm and turns him back around. Magic, hot and angry, surges up under Merlin’s skin. ‘I told you I’m not interested.’

‘And I told you I didn’t have ulterior motives,’ Gwaine snaps, letting go of him. ‘You can’t recognise friendship when it’s offered, that’s your fault.’

Merlin watches as Gwaine grabs his coat and starts down the steps leading to the lawn. ‘Wait,’ he calls, and Gwaine looks at him over his shoulder.

‘No strings at all?’

‘None,’ Gwaine says. ‘Upon my honour.’

Merlin snorts, but leaps down the steps after Gwaine. ‘Lead on, then.’

\--

‘Ah, Gilli,’ Gwaine says in the shop, clapping his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Just the man I wanted to see. My friend here needs a suit.’

He watches them for a while, Merlin squirming as Gilli takes his measurements, and Gilli looking absolutely flustered to actually have to touch Merlin. Gwaine hides a grin and nips out for a smoke.

He takes his time, wandering in the street outside, watching a wedding-party emerge from the church across the road from the haberdasher’s, watching as a young boy picks up his discarded cigarette and puffs on it.

When he returns to the store, it’s to the lovely sight of Gilli kneeling before Merlin, adjusting the cuffs of his trousers. Merlin’s chosen a shade of navy blue that looks fantastic on him, with a dark red tie that wraps snugly about his collar, his throat long and pale and beautiful.

Merlin smiles at him. ‘How do I look?’

‘See for yourself.’ Taking him by the shoulders, Gwaine guides him in front of a gold-edged, full-length mirror, keeping his fingertips lightly on Merlin’s shoulders.

‘I hardly recognise myself,’ Merlin murmurs. Gwaine picks up a soft beret from a nearby stand and settles it on Merlin’s head.

‘You sure about all this?’

‘Absolutely,’ Gwaine says, gazing at him. ‘You look lovely.’

Merlin flushes. ‘And all for free?’

‘For free. But you might have lunch with me.’

 

\--

 

They eat at one of the porticos at the Pavilion that looks on to the gardens, Gwaine’s legs stretched out in front of him, his chair tilted. He can’t take his eyes off Merlin and Merlin doesn’t seem to mind. He eats with a careless elegance and chews with his mouth closed, grinning up at Gwaine as though waiting for a remark about his table manners.

Gwaine finds it all unutterably charming.

‘Mind if I ask you something?’ Merlin says as they start on their cake and tea.

‘Ask away.’ Gwaine slides a forkful of the richly layered chocolate cake into his mouth, groaning with pleasure.

‘Are there many about like, like you? Men who like what you do?’

He shrugs, reaching over to wipe a drop of chocolate sauce from Merlin’s lip with his napkin. ‘It’s common enough that there are laws against it.’ He lights a cigarette, watching Merlin through the swirl of smoke. ‘He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?’

‘Who does?’

‘Your friend.’

Merlin’s eyes flare for a moment, but then he smirks. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed you watching us. When we swim.’

‘Maybe I’m just waiting for my turn.’

‘I thought we were past this,’ Merlin says. ‘You can have the suit back if you want it.’

‘Only if you let me watch you take it off,’ Gwaine says with a wink, secretly wondering if he’s gone too far.

Merlin only laughs. ‘You’re hopeless.’

‘And you’re beautiful. Not just that. You’re idealistic. I love that about you, Merlin.’

Merlin flushes slightly at the compliment, but shakes his head. ‘I’m not. I don’t even know what I believe in, most of the time.’

‘Hard to believe in something when the world’s against it,’ Gwaine says gently. ‘But that doesn’t make it wrong.’

‘What do you believe in, then?’

Gwaine takes a long, slow drag on his cigarette. ‘I believe that I exist. I had a friend, too. Once. He believed that I existed.’

Merlin frowns, and Gwaine resists the urge to lean over and kiss him on the nose. ‘That sounds like something I’m not meant to understand.’

‘The world said we didn’t exist. That what we felt wasn’t real, that it was unnatural, a crime. A sin. But Galahad, he thought our nature was just as real as anyone else’s. He said that the expression of one’s nature couldn’t be a crime. He wrote about it.’ Gwaine laughs. ‘He was brilliant. I didn’t understand most of his ideas myself.’

‘But you loved him.’

‘Yes. I loved him.’ He reaches across the table to touch Merlin’s cheek, and Merlin doesn’t flinch away. ‘It’s not a crime to love, Merlin. God knows there’s too little happiness in the world, and even less for free.’

Merlin looks down at the crumbs on his plate. ‘I think... I think I’m glad I met you, Gwaine.’

 

\--

 

He’d like to hold Merlin, Gwaine thinks as they walk back together. Hold him in his arms while he strokes himself off and thinks of his friend.

‘I suppose you want me to go back with you,’ Merlin says as they reach a fork in the road.

‘Would you, if I asked?’

‘No.’

Gwaine laughs. ‘At least you’re honest.’

‘I wouldn’t, not if you asked. Would be different if I offered.’

‘And are you offering?’

Merlin smiles, sweet and bright and full of mischief. ‘Not today.’

‘Cheeky little slut,’ Gwaine says affectionately, giving Merlin’s hair a quick caress. Merlin laughs and bats his hand away.

Gwaine watches him until he reaches the end of the road, where he turns around and waves, his smile still bright, his eyes shining blue even from a distance.

 

\--

 

‘Stand still, will you?’ Morgana says impatiently, trying to knot Gwaine’s tie. ‘You need to look your best for our guests.’

‘Since when did you care about things like that?’

Morgana grins devilishly. ‘Oh, I don’t. I just want all the ladies to be impressed with you. Especially the ones looking for a suitable groom for their daughters.’

‘Evil witch,’ Gwaine sighs, suffering her ministrations as she pulls at his throat.

‘Not evil, just bored.’ The emerald in Morgana’s hair glitters as she steps back and gives her hair a last pat. Her dress is a deep black silk, richly embroidered along the collar and cuffs with dark green thread. 

‘Why don’t you marry them, then?’

Morgana spares him a withering look. ‘Go and get your boys ready. I want the band to be the highlight of the party.’

 

\--

 

His boys are all in suits for the duration of the garden party, serving drinks to the guests before they change into their uniforms for their performance. He catches sight of Merlin wearing the suit that he’d bought him, and they exchange smiles across the lawn.

Merlin weaves his way toward Gwaine through the crowd. ‘Champagne, sir?’

‘Mm. Have one yourself.’ Grabbing two glasses, he gestures for Merlin to set the tray down and follow him.

They walk along the stalls set up on the lawn, ice cream and cotton candy and cakes and pies, all to encourage donations for charity. Gwaine leads them away from the crowd and into the secluded vegetable garden. He sits down on the wall and watches Merlin rescue a small snail from wandering onto the path.

‘Lovely garden,’ Merlin remarks, sipping his champagne.

‘Feel free to help yourself to vegetables whenever you like.’

‘Seriously?’

Gwaine shrugs. ‘No one’s going to know.’

‘You encouraging me to steal?’

‘S’not stealing if I said you could take them.’

‘So it’s charity, then.’

‘Jesus, what is with you? I can’t offer you a thing but you read it the wrong way.’

‘I’d rather you just let me be myself.’

Gwaine downs the rest of his drink. ‘I hereby grant you the freedom to be yourself whenever you’re in my garden.’

Merlin laughs, and Gwaine leans in to kiss his cheek. ‘Go on, get changed into your little skirt. And find your friend.’ He’s a little drunk, but it must be said. ‘I want it to be all right for you. For both of you.’

 

\--

 

After the performance, when the rest of the band members return to the mansion to change out of their uniforms, Merlin grabs Arthur’s hand to keep him back. ‘Come for a walk with me?’

Arthur hesitates for a moment, and then nods. Merlin keeps their hands clasped as he leads them away from the lawn, down the path that curves along the gardens and around to the back, near the little side gate that leads to the ocean. They haven’t been swimming together in over a week.

They sit down in the grass together, watching the evening sun over the ocean. ‘Saw you talking to that man earlier,’ Merlin says.

‘What man?’

‘The one who was giving the speech the other day. Leon something. You loved his speech.’

Arthur shrugs. ‘Yeah. We talked a bit. I wasn’t expecting to find him here, in a suit and all.’

‘Bit sweet on him, are you?’ Something ugly flares up inside Merlin, and he turns his head away.

‘Oh, shut up.’ Arthur nudges Merlin’s knee with his foot, and Merlin nudges back, not minding that his kilt rides up his thigh. Arthur flushes and looks away.

Merlin laughs. ‘What are you blushing for? Not like you haven’t seen it all.’

‘Who said I was blushing?’

Merlin wraps his arm around Arthur’s shoulder. ‘Are we still friends?’

Arthur glances up at him, his eyes blue and serious. ‘You haven’t been very friendly lately.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Merlin rubs his thumb into the crisp cotton of Arthur’s shirt. ‘But I’ve been thinking an awful lot about you.’

‘What were you thinking?’

Merlin rolls on to his stomach, propping his chin in his hands. ‘You should teach. When you finish college. I bet you’d be an amazing teacher.’

Arthur chews thoughtfully on a blade of grass. ‘You think so? I never thought of that.’

‘Course you should. You’d be brilliant at it.’

Taking the grass-stem from his mouth, Arthur runs the tip of it gently down the side of Merlin’s face, making him close his eyes and hum in contentment. ‘I think I’m going to ask you for a kiss.’

Arthur drops the bit of grass and glides his thumb along Merlin’s cheekbone. ‘I think I hoped you would.’

Loud footsteps clatter down the path, and they pull away quickly from each other.

‘Well, well,’ sneers Valiant’s voice. ‘If it isn’t the lovebirds.’

Merlin leaps to his feet. ‘Fuck off, Valiant. And take your cronies with you.’

Valiant’s eyes narrow. ‘You know, garbage-boy, you’re lucky I don’t want to soil my hands with the likes of you.’ He fixes his gaze on Arthur. ‘You tell your friend here to be careful, or he’ll find a knife between his ribs one day.’

‘Will I?’ Merlin snarls, taking a step toward Valiant. From the corner of his eye, he can see Arthur’s hands clenched into fists. Looking Valiant squarely in the eyes, he lets his eyes flare gold and watches with satisfaction as Valiant backs away, almost tripping over his own feet.

‘You’re dead, boy,’ Valiant sneers, but there’s fear in his eyes as he turns around and walks away, followed by his gang.

‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ Arthur says, distressed. ‘Merlin, what if they tell someone?’

‘I don’t care,’ Merlin says, out of breath with anger. ‘I’m not long for this place, anyway.’

‘What are you saying? Merlin, where will you go?’

Merlin slumps down on to the wall, pulling Arthur with him. ‘There’s training camps. For the Citizens’ Army.’ He turns his face into Arthur’s neck, putting a hand on his knee. Arthur’s hand wraps around the nape of his neck, holding him close.

‘Merlin, you’re not a soldier.’

‘I could learn. Learn to use my magic to fight.’

‘Is that what you want?’ Arthur’s fingers rub gently against the back of Merlin’s neck, and a tingle runs all the way down Merlin’s body, making his toes curl in his boots. He shifts his hand on Arthur’s knee, pushing his kilt up his thigh.

‘I want this,’ he murmurs against Arthur’s collar, seeking skin, nuzzling his lips against Arthur’s throat. His fingers brush against the hard line of Arthur’s cock beneath his kilt, and Arthur sucks in his breath.

‘Merlin, no.’ Arthur’s hand covers his, stilling him.

‘Not even a kiss?’

‘No,’ Arthur says, squeezing his hand, as if in apology.

Merlin gets to his feet, and they walk back to the house together in silence. 

 

\--

 

That night he dreams of swimming in the sea, struggling to get to Merlin. Merlin is chained to a rock, vultures clawing at his eyes and chest, blood glistening on his skin. He’s screaming Arthur’s name.

Arthur gasps awake, his night-shirt soaked with sweat, almost as wet as if he’d been swimming.

‘Arthur!’ a muffled voice is saying. There’s a scratching at the window above his head.

Scrambling to his knees, he unfastens the catch and tries to raise the pane, which is stuck. Merlin slips his fingers under it from the outside, and together they push it up.

‘Merlin,’ he breathes, looking at the blood on the other boy’s nose and chin. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Valiant and his boys caught me when I was heading home,’ Merlin shrugs. ‘It’s okay. They look worse.’

‘I should have walked with you.’ Arthur reaches for the handkerchief on his night-table and gently cleans away the blood. ‘Those bastards.’

‘You be careful, okay? Don’t want them going after you.’

‘You’re leaving.’ Panic clutches at Arthur’s chest.

‘Didn’t want to go without saying goodbye.’

‘Don’t go.’ He reaches through the window, fisting a hand in Merlin’s worn, brown jacket. ‘Merlin, please.’

Merlin shakes his head. ‘There’s nothing for me here, Arthur. It’s only a matter of time before I get found out, and my mother doesn’t really need me here anymore. I want to go. To learn to fight.’ He curls a hand around Arthur’s. 

‘What about the swimming?’ Arthur says, clutching at it like a straw. ‘I thought we were going to swim to the island.’

Merlin takes out an old, bent medal from his pocket. ‘This was my father’s.’ He bends the metal further until it snaps in two, and hands one half to Arthur. ‘Keep that. As a pledge. I’ll come back one day, and we’ll swim to the island, okay?’

Arthur nods, his eyes stinging, and clutches the medal in his hand. ‘Can I kiss you?’

Merlin gives him a small, sad smile. ‘Not now. Not because I’m leaving.’ His hand caresses Arthur’s face, and Arthur closes his eyes at the press of warm fingers against his skin, gliding over his face as though Merlin were memorising it. 

He feels the warm touch long after Merlin has gone, and nothing is outside the window but the night, and the cold wind.

 

~end of part one


	2. The Rising

Arthur throws open the door, white and breathless. ‘They told me there was a telegram.’

His father sits at the well-scrubbed, worn dining table, a scrap of paper on the table in front of him. Arthur snatches it up, reads the few words inscribed on the paper.

‘Missing?’ There’s wetness on Arthur’s face even before he realises he’s crying.

‘That’s right, missing. You know what that means, Arthur? It means there’s hope yet.’ Uther’s eyes turn to the framed photograph on the mantelpiece: Lance has a huge grin on his face, his arm raised in a salute and the buttons of his uniform shining brightly. The telegram calls him Corporal Lancelot Du Lac. There’s nothing in it of Lance.

He prays with his father that night, dutifully retrieving his rosary and sitting at the table with the telegram still on it, like they’ve set up a shrine. Afterward, Arthur puts the kettle on for tea, and his father gestures for him to sit down at the table again.

‘The swimming you do,’ Uther begins. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it.’

‘What about it, father?’

‘It’s getting too cold for it, don’t you think?’

‘It’s only October.’

His father shakes his head. ‘The mornings are darker. It’s dangerous for a boy on his own.’

‘Father, I’m a much better swimmer now.’

His father’s hand cracks down hard on the table, making Arthur wince. ‘Would you think of someone else but yourself for a change? You didn’t think I might need you around the shop?’

‘Father, please don’t ask me to stop. I’ll help out more at the shop if you want, I—’

‘I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. There will be no more swimming.’

And so it happens that Arthur still goes to Forty Foot every morning, and climbs down the ladder to the water, and sits there for a while. Sometimes the waves surge up and drench him, as though mocking, as though beckoning. Sometimes clinging to the ladder, freezing in the morning cold, feels like penance for an unknown crime. Sometimes he catches sight of figures in the distance, almost looking like they could be two boys, at swim.

 

\--

 

They break open the clay hen with the spare pennies during Christmas week, and decorate the house too, because Arthur’s father will not hear of draping black over the windows, not when Lance is missing, not dead.

The band has disintegrated now, with most of its members either applying to college or choosing to join a vocation, many of them taking up the vows of the brotherhood or enlisting in the army. Arthur still sees Gwaine sometimes, early in the mornings at the bathing-house. He’s a beautiful diver, all finesse and lean, strong muscles. 

It gets colder every morning, as though the summer had left with Merlin, as though there were truly nothing left of them at all. Maybe Merlin had wanted to be a teacher, too, and maybe Arthur could have offered to help, could have shared his books. Could have kissed him when he’d asked, and maybe Merlin wouldn’t have left, wouldn’t have felt he had nothing left to stay for.

 

\--

 

‘You want to learn? To dive?’ Gwaine asks one morning, shaking the water from his hair and then rubbing it vigorously with a towel.

‘I want to,’ Arthur says. ‘But I doubt my father’ll allow it.’

‘Well, tell him I’ve got membership at a swimming club in town. It’ll be safe.’

‘I thought you preferred swimming here, in the sea.’

Gwaine shrugs. ‘It’s getting a bit cold, and they have heated water at the pool.’ He winks and ruffles Arthur’s hair. ‘Let me know what your father says.’

 

\--

 

They meet in the afternoons, Gwaine smoking at a bench by the pool while Arthur practises his laps. Sometimes he gets in the pool with Arthur and helps him with his strokes, or shows him how to float, a hand on the small of his back, the other between his shoulders, guiding him. Gwaine keeps the touch gentle but impersonal, for though the boy is lovely, something in him doesn’t allow him to take advantage of someone who’s clearly pining after someone else.

Gradually, he watches Arthur open up, become a stronger swimmer, learn to laugh until it reaches his striking blue eyes and lights them up. They walk together for a while after they leave the pool, sometimes buying ices from a stall around the corner and chasing the cold, sweet flavours with their tongues, leaning against the stone wall and watching the sun set.

‘Did you,’ Arthur begins one evening, looking at the ocean. ‘Would you ever kiss another man?’

Gwaine laughs, reaches over to lightly cuff Arthur on the side of his head, but finds that he’s turned his head and ends up stroking his hair back from his face instead. He leans over and kisses Arthur’s forehead, letting his lips rest against Arthur’s skin for a moment. Arthur leans into the caress, his eyes shut.

‘He’s an idiot,’ Gwaine says, ‘to have left you.’

Arthur shakes his head. ‘I—I didn’t treat him right, Gwaine. And he, he had things he needed to do.’

‘Like what? Get himself killed for some stupid cause?’

Arthur winces, and Gwaine squeezes his hand in apology.

Arthur turns his eyes back to the ocean. ‘He asked me once, if I’d... well, it doesn’t matter what he asked. I wanted... I wanted to kiss him. But I never did.’ He turns to Gwaine again. ‘If they wanted me to fight, to be a soldier, I don’t know what I’d be fighting for. But I’d fight for him.’

‘So Merlin’s your country?’ Gwaine laughs.

Arthur smiles back. ‘I know it sounds silly. But if a country’s somewhere you belong, something you call home, something you’d... you’d fight for, then he is. He’s my country and I love him.’

 _Galahad, Galahad, you should be here now._ ‘Then I’m happy for you, Arthur. Happy that you know. Happy for you both.’

‘You’re a part of it too, you know.’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah.’ Arthur’s cheeks are tinged with pink, but he goes on. ‘Before you, I never had anyone I could talk to. It’s like I’ve learnt a new language now. You’re a part of it too, Gwaine.’

 

\--

 

It’s coming on Christmas and the nights are bitter and freezing, particularly in the small cell in which Merlin’s been confined for the last couple of days. 

_Stay focused_ , he tells himself. _Not too long now._

Using magic to warm himself would be tantamount to signing a confession, were he to be caught. He settles for curling up on his bunk and letting his familiar blue ball of light give him the illusion of warmth, snuffing it out in a hurry when footsteps echo in the corridor outside. He watches the ink-black sky from the tiny window of his prison until dawn arrives, pink and bright, and a little warmth bleeds into the cell. 

The kindly old policeman brings him a watery, lukewarm glass of tea, and informs him that he is to be released the next day, with no more than a word of caution.

‘Told you I’d done nothing,’ Merlin shrugs. Definitely not long now, and it looks like he’s going to be part of the action after all.

 

\--

 

‘Your turn to get the ices,’ Gwaine says, reaching into his pocket for a coin.

‘I have the money.’ Flashing him a smile, Arthur jogs ahead to the ice-cream stall. His hair is still wet from the pool, water darkening the golden locks to a dark, burnished hue that catches the rays of the setting sun and makes Gwaine want to stare at the godlike creature forever. It’s too cold for ices, really, but it’s a little ritual that he’s loath to let go of.

‘There’s a demonstration in town tomorrow, you know,’ Gwaine says as they stroll along the boulevard with their ices. ‘By the Citizen Army. We could go.’

‘I’d like that,’ Arthur says simply. They reach the wall beside the cliff-path and he hoists himself up, straddling it.

‘We might see Merlin there,’ Gwaine remarks, leaning against the wall.

‘I don’t know about that,’ Arthur says, turning away to look at the sea. ‘He never wrote, Gwaine. Not once.’

‘There’s a place he might go to. Liberty Hall, up in the town. Word on the street is a lot of magic folk gather there for meetings.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t want to be found,’ Arthur replies, and Gwaine wishes he hadn’t brought up the subject. 

 

\--

 

‘Really, Gwaine,’ Morgana snaps, more irritable than usual that afternoon. ‘How can you know so little?’

Gwaine shrugs, taking another drag of his cigarette. ‘You know me, dear cousin. Tobacco and boys are my only interests.’

She has to smile a little at that. ‘You and your Oscar Wilde obsession.’

‘So, you were saying? About the demonstration?’

‘It’s a calculated distraction, darling. A rising is imminent.’

‘You don’t say,’ Gwaine says, only half-listening. ‘Morgana, stop the car.’

‘What? We’re in the middle of the street.’ Morgana jams her white-gloved palm against the horn for emphasis.

‘Just slow down, then. I think I saw someone I know.’

He’s out of the car before it’s even stopped. ‘I’ll see you at the demonstration,’ he yells back to Morgana, and shoulders his way through the crowd on the pavement.

There’s a boy leaning against a wall, looking very familiar. Aha—Gilli, the kid from the haberdasher’s who’d flirted with Merlin. It isn’t him Gwaine got out of the car for, though; it’s the tall, dark-haired boy Gilli’s talking to, who has his back to Gwaine but who has always been pretty hard to miss, really.

‘Merlin, old friend,’ Gwaine says cheerfully, throwing an arm over his shoulders. ‘Fancy meeting you here, eh?’

The kid’s a cold customer, Gwaine has to give him that. He barely misses a beat, his eyes only widening slightly when Gwaine interrupts the conversation.

‘I’ll see you later, Gilli,’ he says, turning around and shrugging Gwaine’s arm off. Gwaine follows him through the crowd until they reach the mouth of a slightly darkened alley.

Merlin turns on him then, eyes narrow and angry. ‘What do you want, Gwaine?’

Gwaine lights another cigarette to give his hands something to do, because the boy’s asking for a fist right in that pretty mouth.

‘This isn’t about me,’ he says. ‘You been to see Arthur yet?’ 

‘What’s it to you?’

Gwaine’s had enough. ‘Listen to me, you little shit.’ He grabs Merlin’s wrist. ‘I don’t know what horse-crap you’ve been getting your head filled with, but it sure as hell looks like you don’t remember who your friends are.’

‘Get your fucking hands off me.’ Merlin twists his wrist out of Gwaine’s grip.

Gwaine laughs, a sharp, angry sound. ‘Fine. Just go see him. He’s been worried about you.’

‘What’s he to you?’ Merlin takes a step toward him. ‘You laid a hand on him? If you so much as touched him, Gwaine, I’ll murder you. I’ll fucking crucify you, you hear?’

Tossing his cigarette aside, Gwaine grabs Merlin by the shoulders and slams him back against the wall of the alley. ‘What do you care?’ he snarls. ‘You expected him to sit around and wait for you like some good little virgin?’

Merlin kicks him in the kneecap and wriggles out of his hold. ‘You haven’t had him,’ he says. ‘If you had, you’d be gloating. But you haven’t, and you never will.’ His mouth twists in a grimace of a smile. ‘Because I got there first.’

Gwaine knees him in the groin. 

Merlin doubles over with a groan of pain, sinking to his knees in the alley. Gwaine stalks out without a backward glance.

 

\--

 

Gwaine knocks on the rickety door of the shed, his too-large felt cap pulled low over his forehead in an attempt to disguise his features. 

The door opens a crack and a bright torchlight is shone directly in his eyes, blinding him for a moment.

‘Hello,’ he says, and it comes out sounding creaky and nervous. Not his brightest moment, that’s for sure.

This is, without a doubt, the most idiotic, foolhardy thing that Gwaine has ever done, including that time he’d goaded a prison guard twice his size into attacking him (because Galahad had been watching, and Gwaine would have done anything to impress him. He hadn’t been very impressed, but later, he’d tended to Gwaine’s bruises with a mixture of amusement laced with unmistakable concern, and Gwaine had glowed with contentment despite the fact that he was black and blue all over).

‘You?’ a familiar voice says, low and scornful.

‘Merlin?’ Gwaine blinks, trying to get his eyes to focus again.

‘What the fuck, Gwaine?’ Merlin grabs him by the elbow and yanks him into the shed, shutting the door hurriedly.

Gwaine lets out a short laugh. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, kid. I’m here for the consignment. Not for you.’

Merlin mutters something and a lantern flares to life, illuminating the small shed. ‘You?’ he says again, voice rising in unflattering disbelief. ‘You aren’t one of us.’

‘No, but apparently my cousin is. Now just give me the stuff so I can go.’

‘The Lady Morgana,’ Merlin says, breath hissing sharply. ‘Of course.’

‘Yeah, yeah, her. She's outside in the car. Get on with it.’

Merlin gives him a sudden grin. ‘What’s the matter? Afraid of me now, are you? Not so keen on trying to damage my junk when it’s just you and me in private?’

‘Didn’t stop me before,’ Gwaine says, vividly recollecting how the boy had lain sweetly beside him a lifetime ago, compliant with the promise of payment. How he’d allowed himself to be manhandled, to be fucked and fucked and fucked until neither of them was capable of anything but exhausted respite.

‘Proud of what you did, are you?’ Merlin says, his eyes devoid of emotion, and Gwaine doesn’t know if he’s talking about yesterday or several months ago.

‘No,’ he says, surprising himself with the sudden vehemence that rises up inside him. ‘In fact, I’m rather sorry I ever laid eyes on you.’

Merlin turns away without a word, and Gwaine senses that, despite his bravado, Merlin’s hurt by the words.

‘I meant,’ he says more gently as Merlin retrieves three long, slender boxes of wood from a shelf, ‘that you’d be better off if you hadn’t met me.’

Merlin thrusts the boxes into Gwaine’s arms. ‘What gives you the right to decide what’s good for me, Gwaine?’ he says, his face twisted but the words curiously subdued, as though he’d wanted to snarl but couldn’t quite manage it.

Gwaine lifts his shoulders in a slight shrug, a gesture of apology. ‘Maybe I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong in thinking you should get away while you can.’

And Merlin’s watching him now, watching him with that look he’d get on his face when he was all fucked out but still awake, listening to some stupid prison story Gwaine was telling him while he smoked at the window and Merlin lay on the bed rumpled among the sheets that his mother had washed. Memory’s such a bitch, turning Gwaine’s shame-faced story of lustful coercion into some half-forgotten, half-distorted romance in his head.

There’s more that Gwaine wants to say, some ridiculous wise-sounding shit that the boy will listen to and learn from. Or even some melodramatic nonsense such as _Go away, take him and run, and don’t look back._

‘Keep your head down, Merlin,’ he says instead, and hopes it’s warning enough.

 

\--

 

‘Oh, man. Oh fucking _hell_.’ Gwaine runs his hands through his sweat-dampened hair, clutching it hard. 

‘Quit being such a baby. We didn’t get hit,’ Morgana says calmly, as though the side of the car weren’t riddled with bullet holes.

‘We’re gun-runners,’ Gwaine says. ‘We just got _shot_ at. And you didn’t even have the decency to tell me it might happen.’

Morgana shrugs. ‘More fun this way. Light me a cigarette, would you?’

Gwaine’s just handing her her smoke when a roadblock up ahead catches his eye. ‘Oh, crap.’

‘I think,’ Morgana says, as though commenting on her flower garden, ‘we might have been betrayed.’

‘That little jerk,’ Gwaine says through clenched teeth. ‘I can’t believe he stooped to this.’

‘Who, your little fuck?’ Morgana sounds supremely uninterested. ‘Surely he doesn’t hate you so much that he’d betray his own kind just to get back at you.’

‘Doesn’t matter now, anyway,’ Gwaine says. ‘Turn the car around.’

‘They’re behind us too. Hold on.’ With a rough, angry scrape of tyres against the asphalt, Morgana turns the car into a tiny lane, knocking over a covered fruit stall on the way. Gwaine swears as oranges bounce off the windscreen, the sound of revving engines behind them announcing that the chase is on.

‘Here.’ Driving one-handed, Morgana tosses him her Webley. ‘Be prepared to shoot, and to take the wheel if I get hit.’

Great. Gwaine hadn't even considered being shot at again. Before the thought has even formed fully in his head, bullets whistle past his window.

‘Shoot!’ Morgana screams, flooring the accelerator. ‘For fuck’s sake, you idiot, _shoot_!’

Swearing loudly, Gwaine turns and shoots through the rear window, smashing the glass, aiming blindly at the police vehicle behind them. He’s thrown hard against the door as Morgana makes a tight left turn on to the main street again, and then another left into a smaller lane, shaking the police momentarily off their tail. And then it all goes to hell.

When they turn into a broader, poorly-lit street, still moving at twice the speed limit, a tall, grey-haired man is crossing the street right in front of them. 

‘Fuck!’ Morgana cries, swerving hard to avoid the man. The car careens off the street and smashes into a lamppost with an agonising sound of tearing metal and breaking glass. 

Stunned, Gwaine blinks blood out of his eyes to see Morgana’s side of the car completely smashed in, her legs pinned helplessly beneath the mangled dashboard, her thigh bleeding freely from a deep gash.

‘Oh, god. Stay still. Don’t try to move. I’ll get an ambulance.’

‘No. Gwaine, no.’ Morgana grabs his arm, her eyes wild with pain, her breathing still somehow steady. ‘Go. You have to go. There’s no point both of us getting caught.’

‘I’m not leaving you here like this!’

‘We have no choice, you fool. Take the guns and _go_. Get them to Liberty Hall. Or this will all have been in vain.’

Gwaine kicks his door open and gets out of the car, retrieving the guns from the back seat. ‘We can both go,’ he pleads, the cut on his head throbbing like mad, blood still leaking into his eyes. ‘Morgana—’

She picks up the Webley, points it at his chest. ‘Get the fuck away from here. Now.’

He walks backward for a bit, nearly sobbing with desperation, shaking his head at her, watching her smile ruefully as she keeps the gun trained on him. As he turns the corner, he hears two things: the sound of sirens getting closer, and a single gunshot.

 

\--

 

Merlin’s head jerks up with a start as his rifle slips out of his hands and falls to the floor with a dull clatter. He’s been living in the same filthy shed for days, always waiting, always on watch, with about a dozen others. He retrieves his rifle and presses himself back into the small corner that he’s managed to warm up with his body heat. Guns aren’t his thing at all, but not everyone in the Army has the kind of powers that he does, and sometimes it’s wiser to pretend that he’s like everyone else, needing weapons and bullets and knives to protect themselves from what’s coming.

Most nights, he dreams of a blue tide carrying him away to sea. Most days, he imagines dropping his rifle and his uniform and putting on his old clothes again. The suit Gwaine had bought him, maybe. Or the hand-woven neckerchiefs he’d worn that Arthur had laughed at a lifetime ago, rubbing a quick hand down Merlin’s arm to let him know that he was just teasing.

He visits his mother one night, slipping out of the safehouse when the others aren’t paying attention, moving through the darkened lanes like a shadow until he reaches the familiar house with its laundry hung up in the garden and its always-welcoming smell of food and old furniture and home.

She feeds him hot soup and warm bread, skimming a hand over his unwashed hair as he eats ravenously at the old scrubbed table in the tiny kitchen.

‘Make peace with your father before you go,’ she says after a bit of silence.

‘What father’s that?’ he asks, looking up briefly from his meal. ‘Mine’s dead.’

‘Your stepfather gave us a home, Merlin. A place to go when we had no one, nothing.’

‘You won’t have to live with him much longer, Ma.’ He puts a hand on her arm and squeezes. ‘You’ll see. When we win, when we’re free, we can go anywhere. Do anything.’

‘Oh, Merlin.’ She stands and puts her arms around him. ‘You can still go anywhere, and do anything. You don’t have to fight. This needn’t be your fight.’

‘How can you say that?’ Merlin turns his face away from her, shrugging off her arms. ‘How can you think this isn’t my fight, when I’m treated like a criminal because of what I am? When people like me are dying?’

‘Hide it,’ she whispers, her eyes weary and wet. ‘Like you always have. Your magic is of no use to you if you’re... Oh, Merlin.’ She kisses the top of his head, her tears spilling into his hair.

 

\--

 

‘Please,’ Gilli says, on his hands and knees, Merlin’s thumbs holding his arse cheeks apart. He isn’t really sure what the boy wants, but he spits into the crack and rubs his saliva over the small hole. Over their heads, sunlight spills into Gilli’s tiny room through the skylight.

Merlin presses up behind Gilli, pushing his shirt further up his back. The head of his cock slips against the other boy’s flesh, and Merlin takes himself in hand and pushes. Gilli lets out a little whimper of pain.

‘Bloody hell,’ Merlin mutters, grabbing Gilli by the hips and shoving him forward and away. He zips himself up, ignoring his shaking hands.

‘What’re you sniffling for?’ he snaps. ‘Isn’t that what you wanted?’

Gilli’s still on his knees, his pale thighs bare, vulnerable. He turns his head around to look at Merlin, his face streaked with wetness. ‘Didn’t think you’d be so. Rough.’

‘Oh, for god’s sake.’ Merlin pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and swipes at Gilli’s face. ‘You haven’t seen me rough.’ He pulls up Gilli’s drawers and tucks his shirt into his trousers. ‘Look, I’m sorry, all right?’

‘Thought you’d be. Friendly, y’know?’

‘I already have a friend.’

‘You didn’t do that to him, though.’

‘No. No, I didn’t. Look, I said I’m sorry. You can hit me if you want.’

‘I don’t want to hit you,’ Gilli says, sounding a little surprised.

Merlin lets out a short laugh. ‘Then you’re a better man than I am. Listen, I—I have my friend. And I guess I wanted to be with him.’

‘Then why don’t you go to him? You scared he won’t be your friend anymore?’

Merlin shrugs and gets to his feet. ‘I’ve got to go. You can still hit me if you want.’

‘I don’t.’ Gilli gives him a small smile.

Merlin grins and ruffles his hair. ‘I know. If I’d thought you wanted to, I wouldn’t have offered.’

 

\--

 

It’s raining heavily when he gets to the general store, his boots splashing in the puddles on the street. 

The bell tinkles when he pushes open the door, and Arthur’s there, wiping the counter with a rag, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and damn, Merlin should have practised smiling on the way because he’s forgotten how.

‘Merlin,’ Arthur says after several seconds. 

Merlin opens his mouth. _I missed you. I saw you everywhere. The other day I saw a boy on a tram and I thought it was you. You’re there in every crowd. I’m a soldier now, under orders, but you’re still everywhere._

‘Hi,’ he says. The counter’s too large between them, the months since he’s last seen Arthur stretching painfully through the silence, making them strangers. _Fuck._

The bell chimes again behind him, and Merlin tears his eyes away from Arthur.

‘Merlin,’ Uther says in surprise, carefully folding his umbrella and hanging it up on a hook on the wall. ‘How are you, my boy? Been a while since we saw you in these parts. Hasn’t it, Arthur?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Arthur’s face is like a closed window.

‘I was just leaving,’ Merlin tells Mr Pendragon. 

‘Well, don’t be a stranger,’ Uther says cheerfully.

Merlin looks back at Arthur. ‘It was good to see you.’

Arthur nods. Merlin turns around and walks out of the door.

Outside, he turns into an alley and kicks the wall until his foot hurts, rain streaming down his hair into his face. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

 

\--

 

‘Have you heard?’ Arthur asks as he shoves open the door to Gwaine’s bedroom. He blinks. ‘What’re you doing? Gwaine?’

Gwaine looks up from where he’s crouched by the fire, feeding papers into it one by one. ‘Nothing. Just some old notes. Heard what?’

‘Today’s demonstration’s been cancelled. Word on the street is there’ll be no rising.’

‘Huh,’ Gwaine says. He continues destroying the stack of notes.

‘Is that all you have to say? Gwaine, this is big.’

Gwaine throws the remaining papers into the fire and sits back on his heels, pushing his hair away from his face. ‘I know. I just. It doesn’t matter to me.’

Arthur goes to kneel by him. ‘It would’ve mattered to her,’ he says, squeezing Gwaine’s shoulder.

‘I know.’ Gwaine swipes wearily at his face. ‘You seen Merlin yet?’

‘Yeah. He came by the store.’

‘And? He say anything about the rising? What they’re planning?’

‘No. That was before.’ Arthur looks sightlessly around the room before his eyes fall on the bed. ‘He was here, wasn’t he. In this room.’

‘Not in a long time,’ Gwaine says gently.

Arthur nods. ‘Okay,’ he says, drawing a shaky breath. ‘Okay.’

 

\--

 

The moon’s high in the sky, drenching the night in silver, when Merlin pushes Arthur’s window open and climbs in.

‘Merlin?’ Arthur says, struggling awake.

‘How’d you know it was me?’ 

‘Who else would break in through my window in the middle of the night?’ Arthur sits up and reaches for the lamp beside his bed, but Merlin grabs him by the shoulders and turns him roughly around. ‘Merlin, what—’

‘Have you got it?’ Merlin asks, feeling Arthur’s neck, reaching beneath his nightshirt. ‘Are you wearing it?’ His hands find a thin cord and he pulls it out, sagging against the bed when he sees the broken piece of medal tied to it.

‘Haven’t taken it off since you left.’

Merlin pushes Arthur back against the pillows and climbs on him, kissing his throat, his cheeks, his forehead. 

‘Merlin—’

‘Shut up, Arthur. For god’s sake, just let me.’ Merlin holds Arthur down by his shoulders and claims his mouth, forcing his lips apart with his tongue. Arthur makes a strangled sound, his hands instantly sliding up Merlin’s back, pulling him closer. They kiss as if they’re starving for it, Merlin’s hands clamped painfully hard against Arthur’s face, Arthur’s fingers sliding into Merlin’s hair and fisting into the strands.

‘Idiot,’ Arthur gasps into Merlin’s mouth. ‘You fucking idiot.’

‘Missed you,’ Merlin says, biting Arthur’s lower lip. ‘Fuck, I missed you.’ He pulls blindly at Arthur’s shirt, tearing it off him.

Arthur pushes up against Merlin’s body, hard as a rock against his thigh, and Merlin groans, biting kisses into Arthur’s shoulder, his throat, his earlobe. ‘Arthur, can I, please can I—’

‘Anything,’ Arthur says, shoving his hands into Merlin’s trousers, fingernails scraping across his arse. ‘Anything you want, Merlin.’

‘Mine,’ Merlin says, tearing his trousers open and shoving down against Arthur. ‘Say you’re mine, Arthur.’

‘Merlin,’ Arthur gasps as Merlin’s hand wraps around them both, aligning them together. 

‘Say it.’ Merlin thrusts into his fist, rubbing his thumb roughly against the head of Arthur’s cock. ‘Come on, love, need you to say it.’

Arthur pulls his head down for a hard kiss, their tongues tangling greedily together. ‘Yeah,’ he says, breathless, arching up against Merlin, legs wrapping around Merlin’s hips. ‘Yours. Merlin. Merlin. Fuck.’

‘Yeah, say my name. Just like that.’ Merlin claims Arthur’s mouth again, stabbing his tongue between Arthur’s lips, wet and slick. He drags his lips from Arthur’s mouth, licks over his cheek, his nose.

They don’t last long, their foreheads pressed together and their eyes shut tight as they rock against each other, making the small bed creak in protest. Merlin removes his hand briefly and spits into it, shoving it back between their bodies to wrap around Arthur’s cock again just as Arthur takes him in hand. They kiss until they make each other come, Merlin spilling into Arthur’s hand with a half-sob and Arthur with his face buried in Merlin’s neck.

Merlin drops his head against Arthur’s shoulder, bringing Arthur’s hand up to his mouth, licking his fingers clean, pushing his own fingers between Arthur’s lips. Arthur’s tongue wraps around them, warm and wet.

‘Why the fuck didn’t we do that before?’ Merlin asks, curling against Arthur’s body, pushing his head up under Arthur’s chin. 

Arthur gives him a shaky laugh, arms wrapping around him. ‘Didn’t think we’d ever get to do that.’

‘’M sorry.’ Merlin slides an arm around Arthur’s chest, his thumb rubbing absently into the soft skin beneath Arthur’s armpit, his cheek squished against Arthur’s shoulder. 

‘You going to leave again?’

Merlin lifts his head, and Arthur gently brushes a strand of hair away from his forehead. Merlin leans down and presses his lips to Arthur’s temple. ‘Not before the island. We’ll go tomorrow,’ he promises, thumbing Arthur’s cheekbone. ‘First thing in the morning, just you and me. Swim all the way to that island, just like we wanted.’

‘Thought you’d forgotten about that,’ Arthur says, his fingertips tracing Merlin’s lips. 

‘Not a fucking chance in hell.’ Merlin kisses his lips, slow and sweet, and it’s as if they’ve never been apart and the dream’s still ahead of them, clear and shining, like blue water in the morning light.

 

\--

 

‘How’re we doing?’ Merlin gasps, grabbing Arthur’s arm as they kick their legs to stay afloat.

‘Nearly there.’ Arthur isn’t really sure if they are, but reassurance is necessary at this point. They’re both struggling for breath, and Arthur’s arms and legs and chest hurt from the strain of swimming so long.

‘Gotta—gotta rest.’ Merlin’s arm drapes around Arthur’s neck. ‘Hold on. Stop for a bit.’

‘Merlin, we can’t—we’ll drown.’

‘Trust me.’ Merlin’s eyes flash briefly, more gold than the sun, and Arthur feels a cushion of softness around him, like an invisible cloud holding him afloat.

‘There,’ Merlin says, looking inordinately pleased with himself.

Arthur kisses him.

Merlin tugs him down below the water, still kissing him, grinning against his lips at Arthur’s half-hearted attempt to free himself. He’s like a small octopus, arms and legs wrapped around Arthur, tongue snaking into Arthur’s mouth with the sea water.

‘You’re mad,’ Arthur says when they resurface, watching as water spills from Merlin’s dark hair on to his shoulders.

‘You love it.’ Merlin gives Arthur’s lower lip a last nibble before letting him go. ‘Come on, I’ll race you.’

Arthur lets him get ahead, swimming more slowly, enjoying the view of Merlin’s arms slicing through the water, the way his wet back glistens in the sun.

‘Slowpoke,’ Merlin grins when he reaches the shore, giving him a hand up. Behind him, the lighthouse on the rock looms, too-large against the small island, looking somehow forlorn and purposeless in the light of day.

Too out of breath to answer, Arthur grabs a handful of water and splashes it at Merlin.

‘That the best you can do?’ Merlin laughs, turning around. ‘Come on, chase me.’

Groaning, Arthur straightens and sets off after him. Merlin’s yelling and whooping with delight, shining in the sun, and Arthur can’t remember a time he’d seen him more happy. Grinning, he catches up with Merlin at the base of the lighthouse and tackles him to the ground. They roll over and over, laughing madly, before coming to a stop with Merlin draped over him.

‘We made it.’ Merlin pushes his hands through Arthur’s hair, absently smoothing the tangles from it. ‘Didn’t think it would take so long to get here.’

 _A year_. ‘Was it supposed to be today?’ Arthur asks, his hands on Merlin’s back, keeping him steady.

‘Was what supposed to be today?’

‘You know what. The rising.’

‘I think so.’ Merlin shrugs, attempting to get off, but Arthur holds him in place.

‘You might have told me.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Merlin drops his head against Arthur’s shoulder.

‘Matters to me.’

‘Shouldn’t.’ Merlin’s lips glide up against Arthur’s neck. ‘Just some stupid war.’

‘Don’t.’ Arthur slips a hand around Merlin’s neck, kissing his shoulder. ‘Don’t act like it means nothing to you.’

‘You know, when I was away. When I was training. The thought of it used to scare me, sometimes.’

‘And now?’

‘Now there’s nothing to be scared of.’ Merlin kisses Arthur’s neck again, and once more. They’re hard against each other, pressed together in the shadow of the lighthouse. ‘Arthur—will you. Please.’

Arthur rolls them over, kisses Merlin’s temple, his cheek, his nose, the hollow of his throat, the half-medal strung around his neck. His skin is dry now, sun-warmed, smelling of the sea. Arthur moves lower, lips on Merlin’s stomach, his navel. He kisses the head of Merlin’s cock, and then kisses down its length, parting his lips, the tip of his tongue discovering Merlin’s taste.

He glances up through his hair to find Merlin propped on his elbows, watching him. ‘Wanted to do that to you,’ he says, biting his lip as Arthur licks at him again. ‘Wanted to kiss you all over.’

Arthur smiles against his cock. ‘Looks like I beat you to it.’

Merlin brushes Arthur’s hair out of his eyes, wraps a strand around his finger. ‘Want you to fuck me.’

Stifling a groan at the thought of it, Arthur brushes his lips against Merlin’s length again. ‘We’ve nothing to ease the way. Don’t want to hurt you.’

‘You won’t. Just use your fingers first,’ Merlin says, pushing Arthur’s hand between his legs.

Arthur rubs his fingertips over Merlin’s hole, tracing his rim, and Merlin makes an encouraging sound, lifting his legs and holding himself open by hooking his arms under his knees.

Arthur bites his lip, nearly undone by the sight. ‘Do you have any idea what you look like?’ he asks hoarsely, still stroking Merlin’s entrance, bringing his other hand to his own mouth to wet his fingers.

Merlin grins at him. ‘Come on, get your fingers in me.’

Arthur can’t think of a response, too intent on his task. He carefully fingers Merlin open, slicking up his fingers with more saliva every time it feels as if they’re not wet enough. Beneath him, Merlin grumbles about how long Arthur’s taking, arches and squirms and squeezes Arthur’s fingers. He looks up when Arthur finally pulls his fingers out.

‘Now?’ he asks. ‘Pretty sure I was ready ten minutes back.’

‘In a minute. Want to try something else.’ Arthur grabs Merlin’s thighs and pushes them wider, almost bending him in half, before lowering his head and running his tongue along Merlin’s crack.

‘Fuck,’ Merlin gasps. ‘Arthur. Fuck.’

Arthur smiles and does it again, licking into Merlin’s hole, getting it as wet as he can. Merlin pushes up against him, making incoherent, needy sounds, clutching at his hair, and Arthur’s almost giddy with the thought that Merlin’s clearly never had this done to him before, that he’s finally given himself completely up to what Arthur’s doing to him. He buries his face in Merlin’s arse and loses himself in the taste of him, almost forgetting that the purpose of it is something else. Just doing this to Merlin, feeling him slick and open and shivering beneath his lips and tongue, seems like an end in itself.

‘Please,’ Merlin says finally, tugging Arthur’s head up by his hair. ‘Arthur, I can’t, I. Please.’

Arthur nods, running a soothing hand over Merlin’s thigh, achingly hard himself. ‘Stop me if it hurts, okay?’

Merlin watches, wide-eyed and breathless, as Arthur takes himself in hand and pushes against his hole, pressing in a little. ‘I’m good,’ he says, clutching at Arthur’s forearms. ‘Keep going.’

Gritting his teeth with the effort of keeping himself from sliding in too quickly, Arthur feeds Merlin an inch at a time, his thighs quivering with need.

‘You all right?’ Arthur rubs his thumb gently over one of Merlin’s tightly-shut eyelids. 

Merlin arches his neck back, lifting his face to rub his cheek against Arthur’s lips. His legs come up around Arthur’s body. ‘Hurts,’ he says. ‘Hurts good. Don’t stop.’

Arthur gives him a minute, brushing his lips over Merlin’s eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, his cheek, his mouth. Finally, Merlin makes an impatient sound, hands cupping Arthur’s arse and pulling him closer, deeper.

‘Fuck, Merlin.’ Arthur pulls back a little and thrusts back in as slowly as he can. They both gasp, Merlin’s fingertips digging into Arthur’s back.

‘Just like that,’ Merlin says into his mouth.

Arthur fucks him with slow strokes, almost crying out every time Merlin’s body sucks him in, impossibly tight around him. Something uncoils inside his chest when he sees Merlin’s face finally relax with pleasure, his arms and legs loosening a little around Arthur as he begins moving with him, his hips rising with eager thrusts to meet Arthur. He winds his fingers in Arthur’s hair and pulls his head down, stabbing his tongue into Arthur’s mouth. He writhes beneath Arthur, claws at him, encourages him with utterly filthy words that go right to Arthur’s cock and make him move faster, fuck Merlin harder, clutch Merlin closer, because this is something nothing can take away from them; this island, this day, this impossible thing between them. Arthur comes with Merlin’s name on his lips, unable to hold himself back anymore.

‘Stay,’ Merlin says, holding Arthur inside him as he strokes himself. Arthur wraps a hand over his, kissing him through it until he moans into Arthur’s mouth and comes over their hands. 

‘My turn next,’ Arthur says as they lie together, his head pillowed on Merlin’s shoulder. 

Merlin laughs and tugs at his hair. ‘Yeah.’

‘And you’ll tell me when it’s going to happen.’

‘When what’s going to happen?’ Merlin asks absently, rubbing his fingertips into Arthur’s scalp.

‘Merlin. The rising.’

‘All right, all right. I’ll send you a telegram. A pigeongram. Smoke signals from the roof of Liberty Hall. Happy now?’

‘I just. I want to know.’

‘I know.’ Merlin pulls Arthur closer, pressing Arthur’s face to his neck, and Arthur breathes against his skin.

‘Talk about something else,’ Merlin whispers, smoothing Arthur’s hair with his fingers. ‘Tell me what you’ll do when you finish university.’

‘Be a teacher,’ Arthur says without hesitation. ‘And you’ll be one too, won’t you?’

‘Sure I will,’ Merlin laughs. ‘And we’ll buy a crooked little house where we won’t be able to afford any furniture.’

‘We’ll have a box for a table. And newspaper for a cloth. And Gwen will give us bread to live on.’

‘I could grow onions in the backyard. We won’t starve.’

‘I hope the cats will like bread,’ Arthur yawns, pressing into Merlin’s side, feeling sleepy and warm.

‘We’ll have cats?’

‘Two of them. At least.’

Merlin smiles. Arthur fixes the image in his memory and dozes off.

 

\--

 

Merlin wakes early, the sun not yet up in the sky. Beside him, Arthur’s warm and dead to the world. 

He’s just slipping out of bed when a knock on the door startles him.

‘Arthur?’

‘Gwaine?’ Merlin drags on his trousers and goes to unlock the door. ‘Arthur’s still asleep.’

Gwaine nods. ‘Merlin. Good to see you.’

‘Yeah,’ Merlin mutters, pulling the door open all the way to let Gwaine in.

‘Look, I could come back later.’

‘Nah, don’t be silly.’

Gwaine gives him a searching, half-amused look. ‘Am I forgiven, then?’

Merlin looks around for his shirt, gives up, and pulls on Arthur’s instead. ‘Ain’t nothing to forgive. What’re you doing here so early?’ He throws himself on the other bed, and Gwaine sits down beside him.

‘Heard the citizen army has plans for today,’ Gwaine says evenly.

Merlin laughs. ‘You don’t miss much, do you.’

‘Does he know?’ Gwaine inclines his head toward Arthur.

Merlin glances fondly at the crop of shiny hair barely visible above the bedclothes. ‘No.’

‘You planning to tell him?’

‘You can tell him when he wakes. I’ll be long gone.’

Gwaine lets out a short, humourless laugh. ‘You’re really something, aren’t you.’

‘What would you have me do?’ Merlin says quietly, keeping his voice down so Arthur doesn’t wake. ‘Tell him I’m off to fight?’

‘He’d want to know.’

‘I know. I can’t do it, Gwaine. If I tell him, he’d want to stop me. And I’d listen, you hear? For him, I’d do it. Turn my back on everything, just because he asked me to.’ 

Merlin stops for a breath, watching Gwaine watching him.

‘Oh, Merlin.’ Gwaine’s hand runs comfortingly down his arm.

Merlin tangles their fingers painfully tight. ‘You look out for him, Gwaine. And yourself.’

 

\--

 

The clanging of bells wakes Arthur. He struggles to open his eyes, notices the outline of Gwaine silhouetted against the window. It can’t be after 7 a.m. yet.

‘He’s gone, isn’t he.’ Arthur swings his legs out of bed and reaches for his clothes. 

The distant sound of a machine gun rattling is answer enough. Gwaine winces as though the gunshots were right in the room with them. ‘It’s started,’ he says. ‘The Citizens have taken over Liberty Hall.’

‘Okay,’ Arthur says, buckling up his belt and looking around for his shirt. ‘Okay. I’m going to help him.’

‘As if there were ever any doubt,’ Gwaine snorts, handing him his coat. ‘I’m coming with.’

Arthur shoves his feet into his boots. ‘Gwaine, you don’t have to.’

Gwaine only smiles faintly. ‘Thought we were all in the same country, and all that.’

‘We are,’ Arthur says, taking Gwaine’s face in his hands and kissing him quickly on the lips. ‘We are.’

 

\--

 

‘You know we’re all going to die today, right?’ Gwaine calls over his shoulder, pedalling his bicycle faster. 

Behind him, Arthur lets out a whoop of vicious joy. 

 

\--

 

‘Jesus,’ Merlin curses. ‘How many of them _are_ there?’

‘Probably the whole of the King’s army,’ Gwen says, shoving another clip into her machine gun. Her hair is tied back with a scarf, her trousers stained with blood and gun-oil.

Merlin rests his head briefly against the brick wall of the courtyard of Liberty Hall. ‘We shouldn’t be here. You should be off somewhere with Lance, looking pretty in a dress.’

‘Me or Lance?’ Gwen asks, and then they’re both laughing until tears spill from Merlin’s eyes.

‘He could still be alive,’ he says.

‘Yeah, well.’ Gwen shrugs. ‘Guess we’ll find out sooner or later, right?’

‘Right.’ They bump fists and head in opposite directions, crouching low against the wall.

 

\--

 

‘It’s surrounded,’ Gwaine says, his back flat against the wall. ‘We’ll never get in.’

‘The roof,’ Arthur yells over the sound of gunfire. ‘Merlin said there was a way.’

 

\--

 

The fight is over when they find Merlin. The courtyard of Liberty Hall is crowded with the dead and the dying, triumphant soldiers at every corner. 

Merlin’s curled up against a wall, blood pooled around him. Arthur pushes his way to him, turns him over. His stomach is ripped open, riddled with bullet-holes. 

‘Merlin,’ he says, pulling him into his arms, cradling his head. ‘Merlin, please.’

Merlin’s eyes open, his lips twisting into a smile. ‘You found me,’ he says, his bloodied hand reaching up to touch Arthur’s face. Arthur clasps it tightly in his, and doesn’t let go, even when Merlin’s eyes close and he slumps against Arthur’s chest.

 

\--

 

‘What if they don’t shoot us?’ Arthur says as they sit with the other prisoners, Merlin still in his arms.

‘We’re prisoners of war,’ Gwaine says. There’s blood in his hair from where a bullet had grazed his head. ‘They won’t kill us.’

‘They have to. Gwaine, they have to. If they don’t, I’ll fight them all. I’ll kill them all.’

‘Hush,’ Gwaine says with a groan. ‘They’ll hear you.’

‘I don’t care,’ Arthur says, burying his face in Merlin’s hair. ‘I’ll fight for him. I’ll keep fighting for him until they kill me.’

 

\--

 

He fights for three years, years full of hurt and death and bitter defeat. Liberty Hall was only the first of many lost battles. Each year their numbers dwindle, and the fight gets more desperate, more hopeless. There are Seers who claim that many, many years from now, there will be a time when those born with magic can live as free citizens, but Arthur knows that even if it happens, he will not be there to see it.

He stops looking for Merlin in every face on the street, in the dark hair of boys he trains and leads to fight. It’s only after his last fight, when he lies broken and bleeding in a field and Gwaine holds him for the last time, that he lets himself drift away, and dares to look for Merlin again. 

They’re at the Forty Foot again, the sun gleaming on the blue sea, and Merlin’s laughing, leaping at Arthur and tackling him down to the cool green grass. ‘Took you long enough,’ he says. 

And then Arthur’s kissing him, laughing and crying at the same time, and the world is beautiful around them, existing just for them.

 

~fin


End file.
